MV (Abandoned File)
by nuclear death frog
Summary: -Abandoned version of the story- This file is being stripped for parts and will not progress from its current endpoint.
1. The Will of the Wand

**For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had meant to do it all along, Harry seized the Basilisk fang on the floor next to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the book.**

Terrifying pain crashed over him, like the entire mass of the wide ocean hitting the beach all at once with crushing force. His every nerve was an inferno, his skull was splitting open, there was a keening wail he heard from miles in the distance...

His sight blinked out in a moment and he crumpled on the floor, unconscious.

He woke... was he awake?... to white clouds and indistinct, blinking images. He was being shaken, and someone was talking to him in a voice he could not recall having ever heard... it was a man's voice.

"Harry."

The voice was clear, but Harry could see nothing of the man speaking to him.

"It's not time yet, Harry."

Where was he? So far as Harry knew, he was in the Chamber of Secrets. He was trying to save Ginny Weasley... he had killed a Basilisk set upon him by Tom Riddle, who one day would... who had in the past, grown up to call himself Lord Voldemort. Tom Riddle had come out of a diary... he, Harry, had stabbed the diary with a fang from the Basilisk. No one else was around... Ginny Weasley was unconscious. There was no one who could be shaking him, talking to him.

"You've destroyed it, Harry; you've destroyed them. You can't stay here; it isn't time, it isn't right. There are things out there that can't be seen from here. But don't come back here, Harry. Not for a hundred years."

The voice withdrew. The shaking stopped, and whoever it was, was gone.

He awoke to the grimy, filthy floor of the underground cavern, and recoiled but only slightly. Cautiously, he sat up inch by inch, eventually making it to a sitting position, and then to his feet.

It felt like it took years. It probably took two minutes.

He heard what sounded like sniffles, close by. He shook himself, then picked up his wand from the floor near the ruined book. It felt dead to his touch, and would not issue a single spark no matter how he waved it. Confused, horrified, he returned it to his pocket though he knew instinctively it would do no good.

Harry gazed at the corpse of the Basilisk. Among the few bits of wandlore he knew was that the cores were physical features of powerful magical creatures, and that in the long-distant past, wizards sometimes took samples of creatures they had personally killed to use as cores for wands. Feathers, scales, hair, heart-strings, claws, or fangs were the norm. He walked over to the great body, and ever so carefully he pulled the remaining large fang from the mouth of the dead serpent. He wrapped it up and vowed to keep it safe.

He turned, and now saw that Ginny Weasley was awake. She had been the source of the sniffles then. Turning back to the Basilisk, he drew the sword out from the roof of its mouth. In lieu of a proper sheath, he thrust it through his belt; that would do to be going on with.

The diary, he remembered. He needed to take it along. It was evidence of... something. Very complex and dangerous magic, the purpose of which he did not understand.

The Sorting Hat also needed retrieving. It was part of Hogwarts... it could not remain here, underground, forever, though this chamber too was part of Hogwarts. Salazar Slytherin himself had built it... and left behind the Basilisk.

He looked closely at the diary, and could now appreciate that he had pretty thoroughly ruined it. Certainly it was no good now as a diary, with a great gaping hole burned into it. The thought crossed his mind that whatever dangerous, powerful enchantments it had carried were certainly broken now.

"Ginny", he said aloud. He turned back, and saw that she was looking around now. He saw her stare at the Basilisk, then at the diary, last at the sword.

She started crying, and then began talking very fast. Tom Riddle was mentioned often, but there was more about her parents, and the thought that she would be expelled; Harry found it a little hard to listen to because of his own thoughts, but managed to find some words he thought would be reassuring.

"It's alright," Harry managed to say. "The Basilisk is dead. Riddle's gone."

Fawkes trilled. Ginny continued crying softly.

Harry looked into the distance, towards the chamber's entrance. "Ron's waiting for us," he said. "We should go."

Ginny nodded, and followed as Harry walked. Fawkes flew off Harry's shoulder, and lit the way.

They reached the head of the chamber in moments, and the tunnel that had led to it. They made progress up the dark tunnel, Fawkes leading the way, and soon the sound of shifting rock reached Harry's ears.

"Ron!" Harry yelled, speeding up. "Ginny's okay! I've got her!"

He heard Ron give a strangled cheer, and they turned the next bend to see his eager face staring through the sizable gap he had managed to make in the rock fall.

"_Ginny!_" Ron thrust an arm through the gap in the rock to pull her through first, then hugged her fiercely with what looked to Harry as all his worth. "I can't believe it! You're alive! How – what – where did that bird come from?" He gaped at Fawkes.

"He's Dumbledore's," said Harry shortly. "Let's get out of here; I'll explain as we go."

They made their way up the tunnel to the head, where Harry learned that Lockhart had lost all his memory as a result of using the badly damaged wand.

Harry did not say anything about the diary or the sword nor the bundle of cloth he had wrapped around the fang. Fawkes lifted the whole group up the great pipe-shaft towards Myrtle's loo.

Fawkes led the way to Professor McGonagall's office, his red and golden plumage luminescent.

The reunion exceeded his emotional expectations. His explanation drained him almost completely, but still Harry remained in the office with Dumbledore after everyone else had left.

"Sit down, Harry," said the headmaster, and Harry sat.

"First of all, Harry, I want to thank you." Harry saw that he was smiling. "You must have shown me real loyalty, down in the Chamber of Secrets. Nothing but that could have called Fawkes to you." Dumbledore's expression turned somewhat curious. He stroked the scarlet plumage of the phoenix, who had just flown onto his knee. Harry somehow managed a grin at this sight.

"And so you met Tom Riddle," the man continued thoughtfully. "I imagine he was most interested in you."

A rush of thoughts overcame Harry, but there was one that was the most pressing. "Professor, there's a problem I didn't mention. I think something happened to my wand; it doesn't want to work."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose; he looked alarmed. "Indeed? Wandlore is not my field, Harry, but may I see?"

Harry drew the wand out of his pocket; it remained dead to his touch. Grimacing, he passed it to the headmaster. Dumbledore took it and waved it a bit. He held it close to his right ear as though he were listening to it, then simply stared at it for a long minute.

Dumbledore handed it back to Harry, shaking his head and looking almost sad. "That is perplexing, and no doubt distressful. I shall take you to see Ollivander in the morning, Harry; I do not doubt you want this resolved as soon as possible."

Nodding, Harry returned it to his pocket again. Remembering what they had been previously speaking of, he marshaled his thoughts.

"Professor, Riddle said I'm like him. Strange likenesses, he said."

"_Did_ he now?", the professor inquired, eyebrows raised. "And what do you think, Harry?"

Harry's answer started abruptly. "I don't think I'm like him! I'm in _Gryffindor_ -" but then he stopped dead silent.

For a while he didn't speak, until he repeated himself, trying to inject a little more force in his voice. "I'm in Gryffindor." He was not sure he succeeded.

Dumbledore nodded anyhow. "You are."

Harry wasn't inclined to say more. Dumbledore smiled in a slightly strange way, and then said, "What you might do, Harry, if you truly doubt your place in Gryffindor, is take a closer look at _this_." And then he passed him the sword.

Turning the sword over, he saw the engraved name of the owner: Godric Gryffindor.

"Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the Hat, Harry." Dumbledore's smile was serene.

Some time later, after freeing Dobby from the Malfoy family, after a feast in the Great Hall where he received many thanks for ending the ordeal, as he prepared himself to sleep, Harry thought about these words and others, and wondered which to believe.

It was an impossible decision to make. The ideas didn't seem to reconcile.

Harry remembered the strange and haunting song issued by Fawkes as he flew into the Chamber; how it had made Harry's heart feel as though it were greatly swelling in his chest, and how it had seemed to alarm Riddle such that he whirled around to watch the phoenix's flight.

Dumbledore had spoken of music as being a magic beyond all that was done at Hogwarts...

In the phoenix, Harry believed.

([])

The wandmaker's shop looked no different to Harry than it had almost two years before, on his eleventh birthday. It remained the last shop in the row, and also the thinnest. The tinkling bell had still signaled his entrance through the door with the peeling gold letters above it. There was considerable dust on the floor; the air in the shop made the back of his neck prickle; he knew now that it must be enchantments of some sort, perhaps or even likely to be secrets of the family to whom the shop had always belonged.

Thousands of wands were still stacked up to the ceiling on the shelves which ran all the way along the walls to the back of the shop. A single wand remained on the faded purple cushion in the dusty window. Harry recognized it as the same single wand, but he did not know to whom it had once belonged. Perhaps it had never been sold, he thought, and was only for display.

Harry wondered if all the wands in the shop had been made by the Ollivander family, or whether there might be some that had been gained in trade with wandmakers in foreign lands.

He turned as he heard footsteps, and he saw Ollivander's moon-bright eyes shining from the gloom in the rear of the shop.

"Harry Potter," said the old man, possibly in greeting. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. What brings you here today? You are not expected."

Harry swallowed. "My wand doesn't seem to work anymore. I need it fixed, or replaced."

The old man stopped short at this news. "That is most sad. A very good wand, that one; perhaps one of the best I have made. Well, let me see it and we shall learn if it can be remedied."

Harry handed the wand over. The old man took it, and beckoned him to the back of the shop.

Having only been in the shop once before, Harry had never seen the backroom. There were shelves here too, but there was no dust. There were shelves with lengths of raw cut wood; Harry knew that wood needed work before it could be made into a wand. There were also shelves of the cores, and shelves of finished wood. In the center of the room was a solid oak workbench and a spindly chair. A second spindly chair sat in a corner of the room. Ollivander motioned Harry towards that chair; Harry pulled it closer to the great workbench.

Ollivander sat at the workbench, pulled his chair very close to Harry, and turned his concentration on the wand. Harry watched as the man turned it in his hands several times; he too held it to his right ear as if listening to it; and he stared at it for several long minutes. A few times he waved it experimentally, but it did not issue sparks for him either.

"The wand is lost," began the wandmaker. "Dead, in fact. It will not work again. Curious and tragic, this." Ollivander stared at Harry. "How long has it been since the wand functioned?"

Harry swallowed nervously. "Less than a day."

Ollivander gazed at Harry with a greater intensity than he had used before. "It seems to have been no more than a few hours ago, I believe."

Harry could only nod. Ollivander reached out with a long white finger and touched Harry's scar while holding the wand.

"Curious," said Ollivander. His stare was now bothering Harry. "I think that this is not a coincidence."

Harry looked down at the floor. He held the bundle of cloth he'd wrapped the fang in. "I thought I might need a new wand, and I brought this along." He unraveled the cloth and let the fang drop to the floor.

Ollivander looked at it. "My word, Mr Potter, what is that?" His voice had dropped to nearly a whisper.

"A fang from Salazar Slytherin's Basilisk. I killed it last night, down in the Chamber of Secrets."

Ollivander stared at Harry again, seemingly looking right through him. "I expected great things from you, Mr Potter, but you have exceeded even my expectations. I will examine this."

He took it off the floor, then smiled. "I have never gotten to work with any piece of a Basilisk before; few wandmakers, perhaps none at all, ever have. This may be a very great privilege."

From a pocket Ollivander produced the silver tape measure that Harry remembered. "You will need to be remeasured, to be sure of the length." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. He moved back and let the tape measure finish by finding the distance between Harry's nostrils. It then fell to the floor.

"As expected, eleven inches is the right measurement. I think it was worth checking though," the wandmaker muttered, seemingly more to himself.

Harry only shrugged; the numbers meant little to him. He only wanted the wand to be complete.

Ollivander picked up the tape measure from the floor and moved to the shelves with the lengths of finished wood. He took many samples down and moved them to the workbench. With his wand in hand he murmured more words which Harry could not understand but knew had to be spells.

Ollivander looked up again, straight at Harry. "One further thing, Mr Potter, before I begin to make the new wand. I fear your old one must be destroyed. I offer you the choice of doing so, as you are not receiving a punishment. Do you wish to break this wand yourself?"

Harry was shocked. He had not considered that he could not keep his first wand. He found he could not answer, and some of his feelings must have shown on his face, for Ollivander said solemnly, "It is the law. This wand has ceased functioning, but the charms on it remain active, and only members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement are ever given the privilege of owning a secondary or further wands."

Harry nodded, disheartened that he could not at least have the memento. "I... could you please do it?"

Ollivander nodded. He gripped the wand between both hands and swiftly broke it. Harry winced at the sound, at the finality. "You see, Mr Potter, that the phoenix feather has come apart?"

Harry looked at the broken wand and nodded.

"A wand that has sustained this sort of damage cannot be repaired by any means I know of. We shall burn the pieces, to be certain." Ollivander muttered a spell Harry could not hear, and the pieces of the broken wand began to burn.

Harry watched as the two halves of his former wand swiftly burned away. Ollivander waved his wand again and the ashes vanished, leaving no sign. Harry was left a little bit cold; he had been very fond of that wand despite which wand it had been brother to.

"And now I shall make you a new wand."

Hours later, Harry found himself remembering the words Ollivander said before bowing him from the shop: _Great things, Mr Potter. Great things indeed._

The Basilisk fang-cored wand had issued a great flood of emerald and gold flames...

That was Slytherin and Gryffindor again. The Sorting Hat had told him he would have done well in Slytherin, it had told him _You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that_...

The Sorting Hat had not told him any such thing about Gryffindor. More than a year later, it had reaffirmed its opinion that he would have done well there.

Yet, when push came to shove, the Sorting Hat had given him Gryffindor's sword, when he had asked for help.

Perhaps both were in him, somehow.

Several people had now told him he was or would be great. Harry was not quite sure what to believe.

The last few days of term passed quickly, without major incident.

Draco Malfoy was forced to shelve his arrogant swagger after his father Lucius was sacked as a Hogwarts governor. Far from his previous form, he spent much of the remainder of the term seemingly riding the cusp of considerable anger. It was different from any expressions Harry or his friends had seen in the blond Slytherin; it did not fit his features. Harry wanted to think Malfoy would not do something drastic but was not willing to wager on that. Ron and Hermione seemed to agree at least in part.

Ginny Weasley seemed to be happy again after a few days spent subdued. She quietly thanked Harry for saving her, but would not say much in front of him after that. Harry noted that she had been slightly red when she thanked him. It was much toned down from the glowing flushes he recalled from the previous summer.

Without a professor, Defense lessons were canceled, to Hermione's annoyance, so Harry and his friends found some time to practice the Disarming Charm and some other minor jinxes in the otherwise empty classroom. Not currently having a wand of his own, Ron had to practice with Hermione's wand; Harry's wand would only work for Harry, neither Ron nor Hermione even got sparks from it.

Whispers followed Harry as he walked the halls, but they were no longer the aggressive sort he had been forced to hear earlier in the year. He was no more fond of this type than the former, and the relentless stares were something he was fast becoming tired of. He had no expectation of them going away.

One day after receiving the new wand, Harry tried calling for Dobby, the elf appearing the moment he called, and with him worked out details of a plan or two for the summer and beyond. The elf was stunned by what Harry had in mind, and had readily agreed to help. Harry was happy to let him.

As the train moved southward to Kings Cross, Harry found himself beset with a nagging thought: "Time only runs forward."


	2. The Weapons of the Mind (redux)

OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION (opened)

Memorandum No. ##########

Dated: ##/##/####

Sending: ^%(^&amp;(%^&amp;%

Receive: *&amp;^$%#%^

As of this writing, the primary subject remains latent. However, it seems likely that the expected parameters will require upward revision. Observation continues on all concerned.

OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION (closed)

The above paper, only reproduced here, was found in the acquired papers of a professor following his death in the year 2046. Unfortunately, little can be gleaned from the above, and it was the only one of its type. Was the professor the sender? The receiver? The elusive "primary subject"? Or one of those "concerned"?

It is included here largely for its entertainment value.

([])

The last compartment of the Hogwarts Express was empty when Harry Potter pulled open the sliding door, dragged his trunk in behind him, secured the trunk away for the journey, placed Hedwig's cage on the seat and sat down next to the owl with a deep exhalation and a longish sigh.

It had been an interesting but exhausting summer.

It had started off better than the summer following his first year. The Dursleys did not lock him or Hedwig in, and with the judicious use of a set of pick-locks they did not know he owned, he was able to liberate his belongings from the cupboard under the stairs at will. So long as he did not spill ink on his sheets (easy to manage) the Dursleys would not know he was studying magic by night. As they had never brought it up, he thought they remained ignorant.

Two days after he had returned to what he thought of as the detention center at Privet Drive, he began learning of a new angle. Walking the neighborhood and trying to avoid the stares of the residents, all of whom scowled at him as he passed by wearing his ill-fitting clothes and trainers, he could not miss the whispers they did not seem bothering to hide.

"Juvenile detention" … "secure center" … "controlled facility" … "correctional institute for troubled youth" … these and other phrases did not fail to enter his ears. With Dobby spying on the neighbors at Harry's request, the missing pieces of the puzzle had been quickly filled in. The residents of Privet Drive and the surrounding streets believed Harry Potter attended a correctional facility for troubled or criminal boys. The source of this belief had been the Dursleys themselves.

Furious, Harry had thought about loudly confronting his relatives. But then he had thought it over. He had realized it would do no good. Hogwarts was a secret, meaning his relatives could not talk about it, not that they would. Even were it not a secret, the neighborhood would not believe it, as they were all the same sorts of people as the Dursleys were: stuffy, posing, obnoxious, and arrogant with nothing to back up their arrogance.

In the past, Harry had never developed anything resembling a mean streak. It hit him with a shock that this rumor was license to do so. What would he lose? The neighbors already thought him a budding criminal and hated him without cause due to his so-called family's lies. Harry had no reason to like them, either for their words, their ignoring of the Dursleys' actions, or the actions of their children. He well remembered being isolated in primary school even though it had been years before. On some level, it still hurt, even though he now had magic and the magical world.

If Harry caused some destruction or chaos around the area, it would only enhance the image of him as a young hoodlum. He didn't exactly want that image, but it would reflect back much worse on the Dursleys, because they were the ones raising him and in theory responsible for him. It was a way to turn their lies against them.

Free of any guilt, and for the first time feeling aggressive and wanting to get back at the loathsome adults for their disregard, Harry had acted. With Dobby's help, he was able to silently get in and out of the Dursleys' house after nightfall.

He started small, destroying a few flowerbeds. That had not satisfied him long, and releasing some anger felt good. He scratched several cars' paint-jobs very badly with a metal file. Unsatisfied, he had broken windows out on cars belonging to the parents of members of Dudley's gang. It had risked the alarms going off, but fortunately none had. Finally, in what Harry thought was the best act of the lot, he had smashed in the windshield of Vernon's car with a weight from his potions kit. The police had been summoned, but there was no evidence which could be traced back, not even fingerprints. Vernon had raged about "police incompetence" for more than a week.

Privet Drive seethed, but there was no way the Dursleys could blame him because they were under the impression he could not enter or exit the house without their aid, since he lacked a key. And since Harry wore his dragonhide gloves at all times on these excursions, there were no fingerprints to trace.

Harry kept his enjoyment at the disruptions strictly to himself. It was an enjoyable month and some days, before the end of July.

He was grateful to Dobby for his aid in these events. He was grateful to Dobby for other unrelated reasons as well, such as supplying him food and other sundries from Hogwarts, and his role in the newly enacted plan. So far the plan had not produced much result, but the vital pieces required him to be at Hogwarts.

Dudley had returned to Privet Drive before Harry had, fatter than ever. The boy now sported no less than five chins. The Dursleys had bought a television for the kitchen at Dudley's whining demand that he didn't want to walk from the kitchen to the sitting room continually. The move allowed him to sit in front of a television in the kitchen and stuff his face all day almost without interruption.

Harry wondered how it was that the Dursleys did not realize their son, thirteen years old and just over a meter-sixty high, most probably exceeded fifteen stone weight. Then again, Vernon weighed considerably more, so for the time being the Dursleys were definitely not concerned. Harry thought it was disgusting how his aunt and uncle doted on their whale of a spawn, but trying to call attention to the boy's sheer mass would be worse than futile. Harry thought vindictively that if perhaps Dudley was dead before his eighteenth birthday of a heart attack, that might wake his parents up, or perhaps it would kill Vernon with his own heart attack.

Harry decided he would look forward to the day he could laugh in his aunt's face about her role in the deaths of her husband and son. It would be sweet indeed.

Harry's thirteenth birthday at the end of July had marked the end of his night-time bouts of justice seeking against Privet Drive and its inhabitants. Harry decided that a month and change was enough to have the people seething for probably a year or more.

His birthday had also brought him numerous gifts. Ron had sent him a Pocket Sneakoscope and a small box of Chocolate Frogs; Hermione had sent him a broomstick-servicing kit which included various types of polish, some buffing cloths, small shears with which to prune broken twigs, and a booklet detailing all the items' use. Hagrid had sent Harry something entirely different: a moving, biting book called _The Monster Book of Monsters_, and a letter telling him to enjoy the book. Harry had not been able to, as the book would not sit still for him to read. He had consigned it to his trunk with a belt tied around it.

There had been an owl from Hogwarts delivering a permission form for Hogsmeade visits. Harry had scowled while looking at the form; he knew vaguely that Hogsmeade was a village near the castle and the only all-magical settlement in Britain, but he did not think there was any use showing the form to either his aunt or uncle; neither one of them would even consider signing it, most likely. He thought hard about forging one of their signatures, but in the end reluctantly decided against it.

There had also been a small box containing a Golden Snitch, and a note from Dumbledore saying that it was the Snitch that Harry had caught in his first ever Quidditch match. The letter had gone on to say that Dumbledore had intended to send it to Harry for his coming of age at seventeen, but realized he had no reason to hold onto it four further years. Dumbledore had written that he had removed the charms which allowed the Snitch to perform its work, and then had asked Harry to ponder whether the item was a Snitch only because of its form, or was it a Snitch if it could work as a Snitch. Harry had not yet given the question any serious thought.

The letter had closed _Keep it safe_.

In the week following his birthday, Vernon's sister Marge had visited Privet Drive, and thinking about Hogwarts had been all that kept Harry sane in that week. It had only barely been enough; on the last night of her visit a glass had broken while she was holding it, and though she passed it off saying she had a very firm grip, Harry was quite sure her grip had not been involved.

A week before the holiday ended, Harry finally received a letter saying he could safely leave, and he had slipped out of the house that night without even saying goodbye, Dobby took him to the Leaky Cauldron, where he had rented a room for the last days of the break.

As Harry slouched down into his seat, he wondered if Ron and Hermione would turn up in the compartment before the train left.

He looked out the window and saw an extremely pretty girl with long black hair. He thought he had seen her before, and wondered who she was. She looked vaguely familiar.

There was no sign of the Weasleys.

With only minutes to spare, they turned up. Hermione had turned up only minutes prior.

Finally the train departed. Harry settled down into his seat, hoping to enjoy a nap.

([])

The hall was packed and the hall was lit by the horde of candles that Harry remembered from his own first night at Hogwarts. It was beautiful and bright and it made Harry feel welcome, a feeling he had only ever had at Hogwarts and at the home of the Weasley family.

This night would be the first time he had seen a Sorting Ceremony that was not his own. The previous year, he and Ron had missed the ceremony and the feast after flying Mr Weasley's Ford Anglia to Hogwarts. As deeply in trouble as he and Ron had gotten in at the time – Harry was sure that anyone else would have been expelled – flying the car to Hogwarts had probably saved his life in the end, for the car had been at Hogwarts, "alive" and active in the Forbidden Forest, and it had come to Harry and Ron's rescue when they faced what would have been a gruesome, horrific death in the spider colony.

Neither Harry nor Ron had ever told Hagrid that Aragog, the oldest of the elephant-sized spiders, had given his descendants permission to eat them.

Professor McGonagall led in a long line of first years. It seemed to Harry that there were a few more than had been in his group; his cohort was around forty people. This group looked closer to fifty, but probably not more.

Harry was already hungry and ready for the Sorting to be over so that the food could be served. He looked up at the head table and his eyes found Albus Dumbledore, who was in conversation with tiny Professor Flitwick.

Down the table sat Professor Snape. Harry did not look at him for more than a second. The hook-nosed man was scowling and looked as cruel and forbidding as ever. One position closer to Dumbledore than Snape sat an older, white-haired man that Harry did not recognize but supposed must be the new professor of Defense. He looked impressively old; his hair was thin and sparse and his face was heavily lined. He had dark eyes behind thick, round glasses.

Harry knew that Dumbledore was somewhere north of one hundred twenty years in age and supposed that this new professor was probably also in his second century. Unlike Dumbledore, whose face bore a mustache and a beard that stretched very long indeed, this man was clean-shaven.

Defense was a subject that had not really been taught well in Harry's first two years. He hoped that the new professor would be better than the completely useless fraud Gilderoy Lockhart, but had no real expectation that the man would climb the ladder of quality as high as "good".

Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on top of the stool that Harry remembered. The first-years were clustered together and Harry could see a few nervous faces.

The tear that served as the Hat's mouth opened, and the Hat began to sing.

_Many many years ago, when Hogwarts was first new_

_There was a task the Founders did, which these days I must do_

_Divide the lot, to surely plot_

_The best ways there were to teach_

_T'was a limit of hours in each day_

_And a large group to reach_

_I have thought in the past that the Sorting is absurd_

_But as I did not raise my voice, I have never yet been heard_

_The houses have never served a purpose_

_And they don't to this very day_

_So I'll give you this fair warning_

_And hope you hear the words I say_

_I hate this job, it makes me rob_

_The potential I see in each of you_

_To be more than a dreadful rube_

_Who believes only one place will do_

_Our school is very noble, and you all come here to learn_

_The magic we can teach you, and the magic you may earn_

_Life experience is fleeting, though your lives may yet be long_

_And there's so much I can't say in a mostly rhyming song_

_I wish I did not have this job, but it is not my place_

_To decide the rules by which we act in this hallowed space_

_Whether you'll die at twenty or two hundred_

_I have no way to know_

_I cannot see the future, and there are many ways to go_

_Magic does unite us, so too will the peace of death_

_It's a shame the school divides us_

_After a loudly spoken breath_

The tear closed, and the Hat seemed to slump.

There was no clapping or cheering for the Hat's song. Harry wondered if the hall had ever been more silent with so many people in it.

Professor McGonagall put the Hat on her head and evidently started having a "discussion" with it. After a minute she floated it towards Dumbledore, who "talked" with it only scarcely longer.

Dumbledore shook his head, evidently amused. Harry saw the twinkle in his eyes. "It seems the Hat wished to sing a more forceful, more somber song tonight. Professor McGonagall, if you will proceed?" He floated it toward her.

McGonagall only nodded, then looked at her list. "Adding, Edward!"

A brown-haired boy stepped out of line. He was taller than most of the first-years, and heavyset. He sat on the stool, and McGonagall placed the Hat on his head. A moment's pause...

"RAVENCLAW!"

The Ravenclaw table began cheering. The boy got off the stool quickly and went to join his new housemates.

Harry tuned the Sorting out for the most part, hearing only a few of the names. "Alton, Elizabeth"... "Coote, Richard"... "Hartford, William"... "Mackenzie, Louise"... "Robins, Demelza"... the times spent under the Hat ranged from short to long.

When "Zeller, Michael" was sent to Hufflepuff, McGonagall took the Hat and the stool away.

Dumbledore rose for his announcements. "To our new students and to returning students, I welcome you or welcome you back. There is a time for speech-making, but this is not it. So, now we eat!"

Platters of food appeared on the four tables, along with the gold plates, all the silverware, and goblets, and napkins.

Conversation exploded at the tables even as people began to eat.

Harry heard the exclamations of astonished, offended students. Some were irate at the Hat's nerve; some were gleeful at the novelty; some looked like they might be both. Harry was not sure which he was; he had only ever heard one Sorting song before, and surely in the past thousand years the Hat had at least one song that had not gone over well. This just seemed like it could be another, he thought to himself.

Hearing bits and pieces of the discussion led Harry to start thinking about younger siblings. He had no siblings, older or younger. Ron had plenty of older brothers, but only one younger sister, and Ginny was already in Gryffindor. Like Harry, Neville was an only child. Seamus had two older sisters; they had left Hogwarts already. Dean had a pack of younger siblings, but none of them were old enough.

Hermione too was an only child. Lavender Brown... Harry hardly ever talked to Lavender, but he thought she had a brother who would be at Hogwarts in a few years. Parvati Patil had her Ravenclaw twin, Padma; Harry was fairly sure there was a much older brother who had left for India to watch their family's overseas interests. Harry talked to Lilith Moon and Sophie Roper even less than he talked to the very flighty Lavender or Parvati. Lilith was very standoffish; as far as Harry knew, she was an only child. Sophie Roper was so quiet she made libraries seem unbearably loud by comparison; Harry did not know if she had siblings or not.

The desserts appeared. Harry ignored his usual treacle tart and helped himself to a dish of strawberry ice cream. Eventually the desserts vanished, along with the plates and eating utensils.

At the head table, Dumbledore signaled the hall for silence.

"Ahem. Just a few short announcements now that we have had our feast. Quidditch trials shall begin two weeks into term; see Madam Hooch and your House's team captains if you wish the chance.

I have been advised by Rubeus Hagrid, our gamekeeper, that the forest on the grounds has become even more restless of late. I have taken it to mean that even he is concerned. I ask you to heed this warning; you may be truly risking your life if you do not.

We are pleased to welcome Professor Quigley, a retired Magical Law Enforcement officer from Ireland, who has taken the Defense post. Please give his classes your full efforts.

Most seriously, in response to the dangers in the previous school year, your belongings have been searched. Any Dark or dangerous objects will have been confiscated.

But with that bit of unpleasantness behind us, it is now definitely time for bed. Chop chop!"

Percy Weasley stood instantly to lead the house out of the hall. When the crowd reached Gryffindor tower, he spoke the password ("Fortuna Major") to convince the Fat Lady to let them all in; she smiled at them all when the password was given.

Harry's four-poster bed looked more welcoming than ever, when he had reached the room to see it. It had been a hard summer and an unusual day. Mulling many things over, his brain took a while to close down.

He dreamed that he was the best man at a wedding about twelve years in the future. It was Neville Longbottom getting married; the bride was a very curvy blonde woman whose face was veiled. Ron, Dean, and Seamus were the groomsmen; Dumbledore was officiating. Hermione was matron of honor; she was wearing a wedding ring, so evidently she had already wed. Lavender (with an engagement ring), Parvati (also wearing a wedding ring), Lilith, and Sophie were the ladies in waiting. It was Neville's full Gryffindor cohort in attendance.

Dumbledore said the last words. Neville and his curvy bride, who Harry now recognized as Hannah Abbott, kissed. Harry smiled a bit tearfully, looked down, and saw he had somehow forgotten his trousers.

The dream changed...

([])

OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION (opened)

Memorandum No. ##########

Dated: ##/##/####

Sending: *&amp;^$%#%^

Receive: ^%(^&amp;(%^&amp;%

I will take this opportunity to remind you that we are operating on a multiple-year framework. Do not neglect this fact.

OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION (closed)

([])

He dreamed that he was lying on a blanket on an isolated shoreline somewhere warm. This particular stretch of coast was flat and free of rocks, his own work; the sand was thick and fine from the same series of spells. The area was Unplottable, a kind of magic that made an area unable to be placed on any new map, and such places tended to obscure themselves on old maps. The Unplottability was also his own work.

The only other person for miles around was lying on the blanket with him. The blanket was damp from their activity. They both had a touch of exhibitionism, and loved performing in the sun, even if nobody else was around to see it. It seemed like they were resting after having performed for hours.

She was beautiful, and as naked as he was. Not very tall, but still a handful of inches shy of his own modest height. Shapely, with coffee-colored skin, with shiny black hair that fell almost to her waist. He loved running his fingers through it; she loved him running his fingers through it. He loved to do it with both of them in front of a mirror so he could see the light shining in her amber-colored eyes.

His hands roamed over her breasts; he tweaked her nipples and she mewled in appreciation. He wasn't yet ready for more but wanted to assure her that he was interested.

She turned so he could kiss her, and it became torrid again soon after.

The dream faded and Harry woke. He had been having more and more of these dreams over the last few months. They were continual; he had one or more almost every night now. Scenes of an older version of him and a girl he knew, many of them classmates but even more in the years above. The scenes were invariably in deserted places, but some had been in city flats, or small town hotels, or the like. They would be in bed, or on a blanket, or on a floor, on a couch, against a table, on a table, against a wall or against a door, usually nude or in the process of getting there, joining themselves in lust, or having just finished, or sleeping it off.

He was fascinated by the idea of a beautiful woman kneeling before him and taking him into her mouth. That happened in many of the dreams; the women looked like they were getting as much pleasure from it as he did. As alluring, though for completely different reasons, was the image of the attractive women bent forward, hands on the ground (or bed) and shapely rears in the air, so he could enter them in the exit. Those scenes were about power; Harry in those scenes was much more commanding than he considered himself to be. He recognized in the Harry of those dreams a need to dominate, and he wondered if that urge would really rise in him as he got older.

This particular dream had been with one of the Patil twins. Far from the first time for that. He thought it was Padma; Parvati usually wore hair ornaments, in life and in his dreams. In one fascinating scene he had been with both girls. The presence of two wedding rings on his right ring finger in that dream meant he had somehow _married_ both girls. He didn't think that was even legal.

Sometimes he had dreams that were absurd and not sexual, but most of the dreams were sexual and he found it difficult not to blush bright red when he interacted with the girls soon after one of these highly graphic flights of his imagination. Though he doubted any of them would be offended in the least, it was a matter of keeping out of trouble.

Third year was a pleasant sort of hell. He was glad that the year was nearly over; being away from the castle might be a positive in its own way.

Classes were a mixed-bag as they had been in the two prior years. Herbology and Astronomy were fine; he had no real complaint with either but for the time of day Astronomy lessons needed to take place at. Potions was horrible because of Snape and because of the Slytherins, but that had not changed and probably never would. History of Magic remained deathly boring. Those were the classes that had essentially not changed; only the material covered was different.

The wand classes, on the other hand...

His holly and phoenix feather wand was only a memory now, but he well remembered how he used magic with it. It was quick to respond, fairly potent with Charms and a bit better with Defense (or defensive spellwork), and protective. Not as great for Transfiguration but maybe that had been the material.

The wand with a Basilisk fang was something else entirely. Sometimes he thought of it as a monster, which was fitting considering a monster had provided the core. It was quicker in its responses than his previous wand, and every spell came out stronger, at times almost too strong for his comfort. In Transfiguration it was perhaps a little stronger than his old wand, but whenever he was Transfiguring an edge or a point, those edges and points came out extraordinarily sharp. It was an interesting quirk that he was trying to avoid, with what he believed not a great deal of success on the whole. He had tested it deliberately just once – a fallen tree branch from the grounds turned into a veritable rail-spike of steel using the "matchstick to needle" conversion he had learned as a first-year student. He had set up a table as a test-bed in an empty classroom; no matter how it was used, the spike cut through the table without barely any resistance at all.

The wand with a Basilisk fang seemed more weapon than wand.

Defense classes were interesting for most of the year. Professor Quigley freely admitted he had never done any teaching of children before, but he was liberal with comments and he had many suggestions for spells the students could learn, suggestions taken from his law enforcement days. Binding spells (wrists, legs, full body), rope conjuring, the Stunning Spell (_"Stupefy_"), the Disarming Charm, and a lot of other things that Harry eagerly put his full efforts into learning, though some of them he had already learned. It was useful, and the man had good stories to tell. On the whole, it made Defense far better than in his first two years.

That had lasted until March. The man had died in his sleep overnight early in the month; classes since then were handled on a rotating basis, and the overall quality had again slipped. Professor Quigley had not become a ghost, so there would be no repeat of Binns, but it was disheartening to lose a decent professor of a core subject after less than a year.

Harry's new electives were overall a chore. Divination was terrible; he hated the stiflingly hot and perfumed classroom it was taught in, he was convinced the material was rubbish, and the professor was predicting his death on a regular basis. Harry was tempted to loudly note that he had not yet died, but thought that would be a waste; it would just get him in trouble with the wretched woman, who would probably give him detention, and he didn't need more detentions. He got enough of them from Snape, most of them for no reason at all.

Care of Magical Creatures was better, but the creatures taught in the first year of the class were not very exciting. Crups, Kneazles, Puffskeins, one lesson on Flobberworms (which bored everyone to tears or sleep), hybrids of the first two with similar non-magical creatures – hybridization caused some quirks... the list was not spectacular. Professor Kettleburn, who taught the class, said that the creatures would be significantly more interesting in later years. Harry was not sure that was something to look forward to, as the professor himself was an aging man who had clearly come out on the bad end of some creature encounters in the past. He was missing his left arm and the lower half of his left leg.

Qudditch practice and the three Qudditch games helped keep Harry in a decent mood. Gryffindor had swept the three games; Oliver Wood had been the best Keeper in Hogwarts and Harry had caught the Snitch all three times. Against Slytherin in November, Gryffindor had won three hundred seventy points to one hundred twenty. Against Ravenclaw in February, Gryffindor had won three hundred points to ninety. And against Hufflepuff in April, with nothing really on the line, Gryffindor had pitched a shutout, one hundred sixty points to zero, in a match that lasted barely four minutes; the second match against Hufflepuff in three years that Harry had ended so quickly. Oliver Wood was over the moon in pure joy; he was nearly certain to sign with a prime team, like Puddlemere or Montrose, within days of finishing school.

In the non-Gryffindor games, Harry watched in glee as Draco Malfoy failed to catch the Snitch against either Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. Harry wondered if the halo from the gift of the Nimbus Two Thousand Ones would let the blond keep his position on the team for much longer, or if that would wear off with continued complete futility at actually catching the Snitch.

With Marcus Flint probably leaving after this year, the Gryffindor team agreed the next Slytherin Captain would probably be Cassius Warrington, a soon-to-be sixth year whose sheer size made him probably more fit for a Beater or Keeper post than on the offensive front. It was concluded Warrington's superior flying ability compared to the other hulks made him the best choice of a poor lot. It was also concluded that Malfoy would probably make a better Chaser than Seeker if his ego would allow him to give up the halo spot. None of the Gryffindors thought that likely at all.

Quickly debated and dismissed was any question about Gryffindor's next Captain; it was unanimous among the team that Angelina Johnson would be it. It wasn't up to them to decide, but McGonagall would probably agree.

Unmentioned by Harry was his private conclusion that after Angelina left in two years (along with Alicia Spinnet and the Weasley twins), _he_ was most likely to receive the badge despite that Katie Bell, the third Chaser and a rising seventh-year at that time, would have equal time on the team and the argument that Chasers were better placed to be Captains than Seekers. Harry also didn't really want to be Captain and didn't think he'd make a good one, due to being uninterested in deeper Quidditch strategy and even less interested in leading anyone. Harry had been something of a leader at times only by necessity and coincidence, not any kind of desire.

Harry was spending a lot of his somewhat free time, i.e. the time not spent in classes, in study, or working on "the plan" with Dobby, or in sleep, with the aforementioned youngest Gryffindor Chaser. She was the closest to him in age, and also the closest to him in background; her dad was in law enforcement and her mum was a house-witch who worked part of the time as a writer in the Muggle world. Like Harry, she had no siblings, though she was distinctly unhappy for it while Harry thought the world would be better off without his cousin. Her dad had pushed her to pursue sports when she was in primary school, and she had risen to all the challenges, dominating games of footie with boys or girls as teammates. Like Harry, she had absolutely burned to fly from the moment she first held even one of the rubbishy school brooms. She wanted to play Quidditch professionally if she could.

Harry got along with her better than he did with Angelina or Alicia, not that he disliked either of them, and was coming to find her attractive. Angelina was very tall, black, slim, and elegant; Alicia was almost as dark, but neither tall nor slim; Katie was a startling contrast to the other two, being blonde, blue-eyed, slightly pale, and becoming rather curvy as she approached fifteen years. She was a few inches taller than Harry but not nearly as tall as Angelina, who stood a fraction above a meter eighty-eight, possibly not done. He had seen an older version of Katie frequently in his dreams. The older Katie was simply gorgeous and those dreams were some of the most torrid.

His own height in these dreams was in flux, ranging by seven centimeters or so from shortest to tallest, never more than a meter eighty. He was always lean in the dreams, for which he was grateful, having no desire to be a tub of lard like his uncle and cousin, nor as emaciated as his aunt. In the dreams where he seemed most healthy and fit, he was built like a whipcord, with muscles like steel cables, and he moved like a gymnast, effortlessly. As if gravity had no hold on him. It was something he wanted to achieve in "the plan". It seemed as if his vision would correct itself over time, or perhaps he would have that done for him, as he never wore glasses in these dreams, yet could still see perfectly. The brightness of his green eyes was intensified by the lack of glasses blocking them.

The year wound down with only blips of news in the _Daily Prophet_ distracting Hogwarts students from the pressure of their looming exams:

_Ministry entering into sensitive negotiations_

_Beauxbatons and Durmstrang interested_

_Ministry says negotiations are thriving_

What exactly they were negotiating about and who was doing the negotiating on whose behalf was left obscured.

([])

The rat known only as Scabbers was on an emotional ride, swinging from high to low at speed. His nominal owner, Ron Weasley, had taken the rat to his Divination final exam for unknown reasons (unknown to the rat, that is), and for once the rat who used to be known as Peter Pettigrew, or Wormtail, was awake in the day. Granted, it was a late afternoon exam, and that was usually around when he woke up – he was generally active at night by long-standing choices and habit – but this had been a little early. It was a fortuitous event.

Divination had been a subject Peter Pettigrew took at Hogwarts for the painless high mark. Even when taught well, the most it taught you was to try and feel for the environment with senses that were not exactly physical, and to stay alert and attentive for possible signs.

These were not things Peter Pettigrew had needed to be taught. He learned them very quickly assisting his former friends with prank after trick after joke after scheme, for years. He knew everything a well-taught Divination class could teach him before his first year was over.

Not expecting to hear anything worth listening to, he hadn't really been paying attention to Ron Weasley's very obviously false answers about what he was seeing in the crystal ball – Wormtail knew damn well from Ron's tone that he was making the entire load up on the spot – he began listening when Ron started asking the professor ("Trelawney", not a name he knew) if she was alright, for apparently she seemed not to be.

And then he had heard what seemed to be a prophecy:

"_The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, abandoned by his followers … His servant has been chained these twelve years … Tonight, before midnight, those chains may fail and the servant may set out to rejoin his master … The Dark Lord could arise with that servant, as terrible or more than ever he was … Tonight, before midnight, the servant may set out to rejoin his master."_

It seemed to Wormtail after more than an hour of intense thought that the "servant" could only be him. The Dark Lord had many followers still living. Many of them were outside Azkaban, like himself. But the others had pretended bewitchment, and would not seek the Dark Lord out. It seemed to him that only he had the capacity to act, as all believed him dead. He could disappear – who would really miss a pet rat? – travel to Albania, where he believed the Dark Lord was hiding because around a year ago he had heard Ron Weasley talk about how Dumbledore said the Dark Lord was doing exactly that, find the Dark Lord, and bring him back! The Dark Lord would be grateful to Wormtail for seeking him out, and for assisting him, and for bringing him information on his followers, and his enemies.

But Wormtail was unsure. He didn't want the Dark Lord back, exactly. The wizard, if restored to his power, was certainly mighty and to be feared. But so long as the Dark Lord was not back, there was no one Wormtail truly needed protection _from_.

Sirius Black was in Azkaban. Remus Lupin was free and was certain to be an enemy if he learned the truth, but until then he was not of concern. The Dark Lord's other followers all believed Wormtail dead.

Harry Potter … the boy would be a very dangerous wizard some day in the future, but he had no idea who Pettigrew was. The boy knew almost nothing of his parents, and even less of who their friends had been. Another danger if he learned the truth, but Wormtail thought it unlikely.

The only reason to seek out the Dark Lord was to gain protection he didn't really need, and seeking out the Dark Lord would not protect him _from the Dark Lord_. Wormtail had seen the wizard torture his followers with the Cruciatus Curse when they displeased him.

Caught up in his thoughts whilst sitting at the bottom of a staircase – Hogwarts had so many of those – Wormtail temporarily forgot his long-standing policy of being observant.

Scabbers was a fairly large, if curiously long-lived, common rat. Even a fairly large rat is not nearly as large as a cat that could be fittingly described as "quite a small tiger".

Not anticipating any danger, the rat was caught unaware when a huge mass landed paw-first on top of him. The left front paw of the massive cat slammed into the top of Wormtail's back, smashing nearly every bone in his body below his front paws into fragments, crushing most of his internal organs into pulp, and in total inflicting at least twelve mortal but not _instantly_ mortal injuries. Wizards and witches are very durable, even when shaped like rodents.

The light almost went out forever in that instant for Wormtail. It did go out forever when the cat gripped Wormtail's head in its jaws and ripped it straight off, tearing out his spine in the bargain when his neck gave way. The cat swallowed the head and then ripped the body of the rat to pieces, swallowing them in turn. Not a trace was left behind.

The cat took a while to return to Ravenclaw tower; he had been hunting on one of the lower floors when he found the meal he had just consumed. Half an hour passed before he sauntered into the common room through a pet entrance, looked around, and spotted his owner sitting in a large armchair.

The cat then proved how capricious he could be when he vomited his incompletely digested meal onto the very expensive blouse of his owner, Marietta Edgecombe.

The death of Peter Pettigrew passed completely unknown by anyone still living who had once known him.

([])

Two days after Wormtail received a traitor's reward there was an article in the _Daily Prophet_:

**SENIOR MINISTRY OFFICIAL FOUND MURDERED IN HOME**

_by L. Crawford_

_It is with deep regret that the Daily Prophet reports the murder of senior Ministry of Magic Official Bartemius Crouch, aged seventy-four years. Crouch, who worked for the Ministry his entire adult life, was found dead in his home when his subordinates arrived to investigate why he failed to come into the office, having not signed for leave nor reported himself sick. Investigation of the body of Mr Crouch, who lived alone, indicated the cause of death to be the Unforgivable Killing Curse._

_Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge issued the following remarks: "I have known Barty Crouch for decades; it's hard to believe he's gone. It's even harder to believe someone would choose to murder such a dedicated servant of the public and a thoroughly decent man to boot. The Ministry will not rest until the killer, whoever they may be, is brought to justice."_

_As of this printing no identity for the culprit has been determined. There were considerable signs of a struggle at the scene. Mr Crouch's wand has not been located. It is presumed to be stolen, for reasons unknown._

_Crouch was the last of his family following the deaths of his wife Helen, to long frailty of uncertain causes, and his only son, Bartemius Crouch junior, who perished in Azkaban whilst serving a life sentence there. It is unclear at this time what will become of the family legacy._

_No successor is immediately apparent in the Ministry's Department of International Magical Cooperation, the office Bartemius Crouch headed._

The _Daily Prophet_ seethed with speculative articles for days but there was little to base the speculation on. No motive was apparent, though many were included in the speculative articles. The newspaper would be nearly aflame for months. The wider community was divided and loud about it; evidently Crouch had been a polarizing figure for reasons Harry did not know.

In the last days of the summer term, the Quidditch World Cup, to be held late in the summer holiday, in Britain for the first time in more than thirty years, was on everyone's mind. Ireland was considered a favorite; their Chaser line was said to be sensationally good. The national teams of the United Kingdom were thought to not be nearly as strong as the Irish squad.

Seamus Finnigan talked about the Irish team constantly; he was predicting not only that the Irish would get to the final game but that they would win the whole tourney.

It seemed much of the school was determined to attend; Draco Malfoy was bragging that his family would have seats "in the top box or close". The way he smirked when he said it was even more arrogant than usual; Harry longed to hit him right in his pale, pointed face.

Harry lamented while on the train ride southward that he would miss practically the whole tournament while stuck at Privet Drive. The thought gave him no pleasure at all.

With Dobby agreeing to help as he did last summer and as he had this year, Harry was determined that the Dursleys would not ruin his holiday no matter what.


	3. A Binding of Flames (redux)

OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION (opened)

Memorandum No. ##########

Date: ##/##/####

Sending: *&amp;^$%#%^

Receive: not applicable

MEMORANDUM TO BE ARCHIVED INDEFINITELY

Numbers are the soul of nature. The beauty of nature rests in the numbers that can be applied to it, and how those numbers can be found and interpreted.

The beauty of a population lies in how it can be measured. When all the data is found and examined, patterns emerge in the maelstrom. The numbers cluster.

From the range of data, when the center-points are found, we might see one of the most beautiful of all phenomena: the outlier.

Outliers, as one imagines by the name, lie far outside the normal range, either above or below. They lie so far outside the normal range that they can possibly move the bar, and so their presence is removed from the data, though the phenomena persists. Outliers are wonderful for the simple reason that their existence can never be predicted. It can only be observed.

OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION (closed)

[M-V]

The dream changed …

He dreamed he was sitting in front of a fireplace, which was currently filled with flames. The fireplace was the main source of heat for the cabin, which had no electricity as there was no civilization for miles around. He had come here for the isolation, and isolated he was, though alone he was not.

She had been with him for years now.

Her light brown hair had darkened over the years, and she no longer wore it boyishly short. It now descended to the middle of her back, and had become wavy with time. Her dark eyes still sparkled in the dim light, her skin was still just a bit pale, and she still shone in that odd way that represented her magic in his sight.

He had met her a few years after starting at Hogwarts. Sometimes he thought of those early days as solstice dawn.

He turned as he heard her soft footsteps. In the light he saw she was wearing a thin slip of a dress which pretended at being blue but was almost transparent, and nothing else. His eyes roamed over her, stopping after a while on the swell of her abdomen. Their child was growing in her; their son or daughter was due in a few short weeks. Hardly any time at all. Her right hand moved over her belly; he thought the baby must be kicking.

To the Harry of the dream, these peaceful times, this happy scene, represented all that mattered to him in the world.

The dream faded …

The smallest bedroom of Number Four was as stuffy and cluttered as it had always been when its occupant woke just after sunrise on the first day of August.

The erotic dreams of the last several months were continuing to fill many of his nights, but in addition to those a new breed of dream was occurring; one without the blatant eroticism but just as emotionally charged in their own way. Scenes of an older Harry and a female partner who was carrying his child. These dreams were enough to make a grown man weep, yet the dreamer was only just fourteen …

It was a prime ingredient in a recipe that looked like disaster.

Harry Potter had been back at the Dursleys for about six weeks now and was well-ready to leave. It was Sunday, and the previous Monday he had received a note in the early hours of the morning that spoke of the opportunity to do exactly that.

_Harry:_

_If it is convenient to you, I shall come to call at your relations' home this Sunday morning, around ten, to remove you to the Burrow for the last month of your summer holiday. Arthur and Molly Weasley have kindly offered to host you for that time. If this time of day is acceptable, or if not, please respond by return owl._

It was in the loopy handwriting that he recognized as belonging to Albus Dumbledore. Harry had hastily scribbled a reply in the affirmative and sent it off with the same owl, a rather large and ruffled-looking barn.

His birthday had been the day before; as expected, it had gone completely ignored by the Dursleys, and he was happy for that. Better nothing at all than to be locked up.

Hermione had sent him a black journal that he was still bothered about; it was marked as an O.W.L preparation aid, and was set up with calendars and log-entries to record dates, subjects studied, and time spent studying. Harry knew very well that those exams were nearly two full school-years away and was not happy about receiving reminders of them this long in advance. He knew Hermione was just being her determined swotty self and that she had good intentions with the gift, but it was simply too soon. He couldn't worry about tests at the end of his fifth year before he'd even begun his fourth.

Ron had sent him a book called _The Seeker's Secrets_, and the accompanying letter told him it was part of a set; Chasers, Beaters, and Keepers all had their own volumes. The youngest Weasley brother had written extensively about the on-going Quidditch World Cup tourney, and had mentioned that he was planning to try for the Gryffindor Keeper position which would need filling in the autumn.

Ron had written a little about his brothers' exam results. Percy had scored extremely well on all his N.E. and had just landed a job in the Ministry, a very junior administrative post in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Percy evidently was very pleased with his post; according to Ron he was more smug than ever. Harry found this a bit hard to believe.

Fred and George had achieved more mixed results on their Ordinary Wizarding Levels: the highest pass mark in the subjects they wanted to continue, but they had failed multiple exams apiece and Mrs Weasley was not happy about it at all. Ron wrote that Fred and George didn't seem at all concerned about their mother's ire.

Mrs Weasley had sent Harry a short note in the package, which held a large plum cake and several meat pies. Errol, the Weasleys' owl, was still recovering from the haul.

There had been a rather exotic gift from Hagrid: a large book titled _Dragon Species of the World_. It had full, color pictures (moving, of course) of all the world's recognized species of dragons, plus a few pictures of creatures that were considered to be dragon-like, namely wyverns. The book was somewhat old – it had been printed more than seventy years before – but in excellent repair. Harry definitely enjoyed looking through it but was more immediately appreciative of the thick chocolate cake that had been sent along with the book.

Harry had restarted his acts of vengeance and chaos-sowing around Privet Drive. He had smashed in two windows, ruined several flowerbeds, scratched the paint jobs on numerous cars, and done a few other things he knew the stuffy, small-minded people would consider "havoc". Privet Drive was seething again but there was nothing anyone could do without evidence; worse still for the small-minded people was that others were evidently getting in on the act. The local playground had been thoroughly trashed; Harry had not been involved, limiting himself to attacking personal property instead of public. It gave Harry some malicious joy to ponder over the difficulties in catching multiple sets of vandals.

The plan was also going well. Harry felt he was to be congratulated on sticking to it; he especially liked that the results were largely hidden from the Dursleys by the oversized clothing he still wore while in his summer exile. Dudley had returned from Smeltings even fatter than Harry had ever seen him, and Harry thought it was amazing how physically different his cousin was from himself. His aunt and uncle were determinedly ignoring Dudley's end-of-year report, in which the school nurse had remarked that Smeltings' outfitters no longer stocked clothing large enough for Dudley; the adult Dursleys had found the usual excuses for Dudley's bad marks and completely dismissed the accusations of bullying. In their eyes, Dudley was wonderful; Harry thought that in unbiased eyes, Dudley was a fourteen year-old boy who weighed over twenty-one stone and was not especially tall to even it out.

At half-seven Harry left the cluttered room and went downstairs to the kitchen. None of the Dursleys were awake, but Harry thought it was better to start preparing breakfast in advance and avoid any fuss, not that he would be thanked. He took only a small portion; Dobby would supply him easily enough. He had finished his plateful before the Dursleys even entered, merely gesturing to the stove filled with pans of food when they did. He then returned to the bedroom to wait.

He had not bothered to tell them of Dumbledore's imminent arrival, thinking it would be an unpleasant surprise.

With hardly a minute remaining before the appointed hour he looked through the front window of the cluttered bedroom, which faced the street. Quicker than a flash, his headmaster popped out of thin air and stood on the walking path. Harry did not even try to suppress the vengeful smirk that crept over his features; his so-called family were in for quite a surprise.

Harry watched Albus Dumbledore strolling up the walking path as if he had all the time in the world. His headmaster was not in robes as Harry always saw him, but instead wore a very sharply cut, navy blue suit and a tan coat. He had tied his long hair back and shortened his beard; the effect made him look years younger. The clothes would not have looked out of place at an upscale clothier.

Dumbledore slipped out of sight and a second or two later Harry heard him knock three times on the door, three sharp raps. Quickly, Harry exited the bedroom and raced to the top of the staircase. He watched as his aunt walked to the door and opened it. She held it open for several seconds, staring (probably open-mouthed, Harry thought) at the form of the professor.

"Good morning," Dumbledore greeted Harry's aunt. "Would this be the residence of the Dursley family?"

Harry watched his aunt nod.

"That is all to the good," Dumbledore said. "May I come in?"

Harry watched his aunt nod again, and then amazingly, she stepped aside for Dumbledore to enter. Harry heard his uncle's heavy footsteps and his cousin's equally heavy (or even heavier) ones as they came from the kitchen. Harry could tell that none of the Dursleys had any idea who this was, and he wondered why they had let him in. Perhaps they were a bit stunned.

"I am Albus Dumbledore," said the headmaster, to Harry's aunt. "We have corresponded, of course."

Harry had moved into view behind the Dursleys, and he watched his aunt fidget slightly, but she did not challenge the statement.

"Shall we sit down?" It was a question, but Harry watched as the Dursleys seemed to take it as an invitation and sat down on the sofa, Dudley between his parents. The sofa groaned from the strain.

Harry moved further into view. Dumbledore looked at him at last. Harry saw the twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes and knew Dumbledore had purposely not addressed him.

Dumbledore sat down on an armchair and simply looked at Harry. "Ah, Harry." The headmaster was smiling. "Excellent, excellent."

Harry watched the vein in Vernon's temple throb slightly. Harry knew that in Vernon's mind, nobody who could look at Harry and see anything "excellent" was anyone with whom Vernon could ever see eye-to-eye.

Dumbledore now faced Dudley. "And this must be your boy Dudley." Dumbledore nodded in such a way that Harry instantly thought was dismissive. "Charming lad. He takes after his father." Though the words caused Petunia and Vernon to smile, Harry alone heard the snide undertone.

"Aren't we leaving, Professor?" Harry asked. He really wanted to be out of this place.

"Almost at once, Harry, but we must talk with your aunt and uncle for a little bit, and I wished to... ah yes" he waved his wand with a flourish, "have a drink." A dusty bottle and several glasses appeared out of thin air.

The bottle tipped and began pouring a generous measure of a honey-colored liquid into each of the five glasses. One of the glasses floated to Harry, one to Dumbledore, and the remaining three over to the Dursleys.

"Madam Rosmerta's finest oak-matured mead," said Dumbledore. "From the Three Broomsticks." Harry hesitantly took a drink; this was not something he had ever gotten to try, and he had the feeling it would be rather strong. He found there was no need for hesitance at all; he had never tasted anything like it before, and enjoyed it immensely. It was sweet with hints of spices he could not identify. In no time Harry had drained his glass. He began to feel rather warm as the drink worked on him.

He watched as the adult Dursleys determinedly ignored the glasses which were now tapping them on the sides of their heads. Dudley was not doing a very good job of mimicking his parents; he definitely wanted his own glass.

Dumbledore turned to address the Dursleys.

"As you know, Harry comes of age in about three years' time..." he began, but was interrupted.

"Four," said Harry's aunt. "He'll be eighteen in four years, not three."

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Indeed, you are correct. But in Harry's world and mine, we come of age at seventeen."

Vernon muttered something that sounded like "rubbish". Dumbledore ignored this.

"You are probably not well aware of how many things work in Harry's world," Dumbledore began, and Harry wondered where this thought was going, "but towards the close of his fifth year, he will sit a major examination in every subject he is taking. Those examinations are his first qualification for adulthood. He will take similar exams in his seventh year. This is similar to your own world's secondary education?" Dumbledore paused, and looked at Vernon as if seeking confirmation.

Vernon and Petunia nodded. Dudley then snatched a glass of mead out of the air and drained it in seconds. Harry's aunt made a hissing noise like an angry cat; Harry almost thought she might scold Dudley for once.

"The concerning point that you may wish to be aware of is that as Harry approaches his majority, he need spend less time here. The summer after his fifth year, he will probably spend as little as two weeks, instead of up to August. I suspect that after his sixth year, he may not come back at all, by his own choice if nothing else. So it will not be very long before he departs your lives forever." Harry saw that this thought pleased all the Dursleys; he was pleased by it himself.

Dumbledore looked blandly at Harry. "Harry, it would be good if you packed up now, assuming you have not done so."

Harry took this for the dismissal it was. He walked upstairs slowly, but he did not hear Dumbledore or the Dursleys' voices again. Thinking there must have been a Silencing Charm used, he returned to the smallest bedroom.

He was already packed, and it rather rankled that he couldn't hear whatever Dumbledore had to say to his "family". He tapped on Hedwig's cage; his snowy owl had been sleeping but was quick to wake.

"Hedwig, I'm sorry for waking you, but Dumbledore is getting me out of here for the summer. You want to fly out?" Hedwig clicked her beak in the way Harry knew meant she was annoyed; Harry knew it was the short rest, his owl liked Privet Drive no more than Harry did, which was not at all. She nipped his finger in understanding, but a fraction harder than necessary; Harry understood it to be a reproof. Harry opened the window and then her cage; Hedwig spread her enormous wings and flew out. He had not bothered to tell Hedwig where to go; he trusted his owl to be more than able to find him.

Dumbledore entered the small room. "That went well enough," he said, but he did not elaborate even when Harry gave him a look.

"I believe that is the Weasleys' owl?" Dumbledore pointed to Errol, who had been on the perch. Harry nodded.

"I will see that the owl gets home," Dumbledore said. He brandished his wand, waved it in a complex pattern, and Errol vanished.

Harry was wrapping up the remaining food he had been sent; everything else, apart from his wand (pocketed) was in his trunk. A moment later Dumbledore shrunk the packed trunk with a flourish of his own wand, Harry pocketed the trunk, and the two left the room. They shortly left the house; Harry didn't bother saying goodbye to his relatives. He wanted to be rid of them forever, not just for another year.

"And now, Harry, let us vanish into the morning." He offered his arm. Harry took hold, and an instant later they were standing outside the Burrow.

"I shall see you in September, Harry. Enjoy the remainder of your holidays."

Harry nodded, and in the time it took him to do so, Dumbledore had gone.

[M-V]

The dream changed …

He dreamed that he was at another wedding some years in the future. It was his own wedding this time; but neither he nor his bride were dressed in wedding clothes. He wore camouflage fatigues that were clearly military in origin, but there was no rank or insignia attached, nor a badge with his name. His bride – Padma Patil, he realized – wore a midnight blue dress which flowed over her like water and hugged every curve. She was six or seven months along, and he knew the child was his … theirs. Strangely, neither he nor Padma had anyone attending them. He looked to the guests; they were few in number. Padma's parents were in the front row on one side of the aisle, as was Parvati. But on Harry's side of the aisle, there was only Hermione and a little girl, maybe three years old.

A little girl who looked much like her mother, but with brilliant green eyes.

The dream faded …

The last month of the holidays passed with Quidditch, Quidditch, and more Quidditch. It seemed like Quidditch was the only thing Harry thought about for weeks; it was a pleasant way to divert attention from the events in the outside world.

The Quidditch World Cup final match, between Ireland and Bulgaria, which Ireland had won by a single goal after the Bulgarian Seeker Viktor Krum caught the Snitch, was the most phenomenal display of Quidditch that Harry had ever seen. Harry had been left deeply impressed at the teamwork of the Irish Chasers. Krum, though, outshone everyone, even in his team's defeat. He moved so easily through the air that it did not even seem he was using a broomstick.

The very last days of the summer had been filled with the backlash from the aftermath of the Quidditch World Cup; there had been a revel of people wearing Death Eater garb, holding a Muggle family hostage, while attacking tents and destroying property belonging to the crowds that had attended the Cup itself. Ministry law enforcement personnel had broken up the revel, but the participants had all escaped. Whether they were genuine Death Eaters or just mimics had not been officially said; the _Daily Prophet_ seemed of two minds.

But it was now early morning on the first of September; the return to Hogwarts was imminent. Harry looked out the window of Ron's room; the sky was dark and it looked filled with grim clouds. It gave the feeling that there would be storms.

Finally, with only minutes to spare before eleven, Harry and the whole troop had boarded the train. Harry, Ron, and Hermione found the last compartment of the last car; Fred and George had found Lee Jordan elsewhere; and Ginny had joined a group of girls Harry vaguely knew to be Gryffindor third-years.

A devious thought crossed his mind as Harry noticed that Ron and Hermione were sitting curiously close to one another.

"Oi, Ron."

Ron looked at Harry, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"

Harry smirked. "Sit against the wall and be a proper chair for your girlfriend."

Harry's friends both flushed bright red. Harry was shocked when Ron proceeded to do exactly as Harry had ordered, and more so when Hermione took advantage. The act sent Harry into gales of laughter.

It set a lively tone for the trip, even as the train pushed into a storm.

It had not lasted.

Draco Malfoy had interfered and ruined it first, showing up with his goons Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. He lorded his knowledge of some event happening at Hogwarts over Harry, Hermione, and Ron, especially the latter, who "had a father and a brother in the Ministry, even in useless posts." Harry had kept his wand trained on the three Slytherins for the whole conversation, but they seemed to have more guts than usual this encounter, and they hadn't left until Malfoy chose.

The rest of the trip had been sour; a storm began and when the entire student procession arrived at Hogwarts, Peeves was there with water balloons containing ice water. By the time Harry and his friends made it to their preferred spot at Gryffindor's table in the Great Hall, they all felt nearly frozen solid as well as soaked to the skin.

Professor McGonagall led a long line of first-years into the hall – Harry thought it looked like a large class – soon the Hat began to sing:

_**A thousand years or more ago, when I was newly sewn,**_

_**There lived four wizards of renown, whose names are still well-known:**_

_**Brave Gryffindor, from wild moor; Fair Ravenclaw, from glen;**_

_**Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad; Shrewd Slytherin, from fen.**_

_**They shared a wish, a hope, a dream – they hatched a daring plan**_

_**To educate young sorcerers, thus Hogwarts School began.**_

_**Now each of these four founders formed their own house for each**_

_**Did value different virtues in the ones they had to teach.**_

_**For Gryffindor, the bravest were prized far beyond the rest.**_

_**For Ravenclaw, the cleverest would always be the best.**_

_**For Hufflepuff, hard-workers were most worthy of admission.**_

_**And power-hungry Slytherin loved those of great ambition.**_

_**While still alive they did divide their favorites from the throng,**_

_**Yet how to find the worthy ones when they were dead and gone?**_

_**'Twas Gryffindor who found the way; he whipped me off his head.**_

_**The Founders put some brains in me, so I could choose instead!**_

_**Now slip me snug about your ears – I've never yet been wrong;**_

_**I'll have a look inside your mind, and tell where you belong!**_

The Great Hall rang with applause. Professor McGonagall was now unrolling a large scroll of parchment.

"When I call your name, you will put on the Hat and sit on the stool. When the Hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table."

Harry watched as first, "Ackerley, Stewart" was Sorted to Ravenclaw, and then a procession of others... "Baddock, Malcolm" to Slytherin … "Branstone, Eleanor" to Hufflepuff … "Cauldwell, Owen" also to Hufflepuff … "Creevey, Dennis" to Gryffindor … "Dobbs, Emma" to Gryffindor … the Sorting went on. And on.

Ron moaned for it to end, massaging his stomach. Harry was tempted to copy him.

"Madley, Laura" became a Hufflepuff. "McDonald, Natalie" became a Gryffindor. The Gryffindor table was cheering each new lion very loudly tonight.

"Peakes, James" also became a Gryffindor. Raucous cheers.

"Pritchard, Graham" became a Slytherin. Many cheers from the table of serpents.

"Quirke, Orla" went to Ravenclaw.

The Sorting drew still longer. Finally, with "Whitby, Kevin" going to Hufflepuff, it ended and McGonagall took the Hat and stool away.

Ron gleefully seized a knife and fork and looked expectantly at his golden plate. Harry followed.

At the head table, Professor Dumbledore stood. Harry noted that his hair was no longer tied back and his beard was back at its former length; he wondered if those changes had been just for the Dursleys' benefit … and what that could possibly accomplish. It seemed useless.

"I have only two words for you at the moment," Dumbledore began. _"Tuck in." _ Platters and platters and bowls of food appeared immediately, like magic.

"Hear, hear!" said Harry and Ron with feeling.

Harry speared a steak off the platter and immediately began cutting it up. Ron grabbed the mashed potato bowl and served himself a very large portion.

Nearly Headless Nick, Gryffindor's House ghost, looked cheerful but a little bemused, from a seat-width away. "You're lucky there's a feast at all tonight," began the ghost. "There was trouble in the kitchens earlier."

It turned out to have been Peeves. Harry supposed later that he should not have been surprised.

Hermione reacted badly when she found out about the house-elves in the kitchens. Harry was not impressed by this level of her indignation; he had seen her in much worse moods before. Harry supposed she was remembering what he had said about Dobby and how the Malfoys treated him.

Finally sated after several helpings of food, Harry looked up at the head table. There was a man a couple seats down on Dumbledore's right who had certainly not been there before. Harry wondered when he had appeared. Then he looked closer.

The man was not a pleasant sight. "Weather-beaten" might have been the kindest possible description. His hair was long, gray, and grizzled. His face looked like it was carved from weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces looked like, and was none too skilled with a chisel. His mouth was a thin slash. His nose was mostly gone, making it impossible to tell what sort of nose it had once been. His eyes – one was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round, electric blue, and it rolled in every direction: clockwise, anti-clockwise, forwards and downward, backward and upward. It was very clearly magical and mentally controlled. Harry was fascinated; he wondered how the man had lost his eye and where he had gotten such a replacement.

The man might have looked comical, but he did not. The overall effect was frightening. As if aware of Harry's scrutiny, the electric blue eye shifted directly towards him.

Was he the Defense teacher? There were, as far as Harry knew, no other openings.

But Dumbledore was standing again now. There were more announcements.

The lack of Quidditch, and the Triwizard Tournament, both as announced, had the school buzzing for days afterward. Fred and George Weasley had seemed especially mutinous about the age restrictions on the latter. Harry was unhappy about the loss of the Quidditch tournament; he wanted to fly.

He entertained idle ideas for about a day of trying to find some illicit way in to the main event, but eventually he decided against trying anything at all.

[M-V]

The dream changed …

He dreamed he was a dragon-keeper working in Romania, like Charlie Weasley. His favorite dragons were a Norwegian Ridgeback and a Hungarian Horntail. He remembered Norbert, the dragon that Hagrid had hatched back in his first year at Hogwarts. Norbert had not prepared him for the sight of these beasts. Yet there was still something grand about them. Or, many things.

He did not know why he was drawn to the Horntail. It was a vicious bitch over and above many other vicious bitches.

The dream changed …

He dreamed he was in bed with Cho Chang, Seeker for Ravenclaw. They were both naked, sleeping off their exercise. It looked to be eight or ten years in the future; both he and Cho were apparently in their early twenties. Harry thought the teenage Cho was extremely pretty; the adult Cho was stunning. Heart-achingly beautiful.

He watched the dream from overhead, as if he were a bird. But he was not a bird; he was in the bed.

The dream changed. The dreams faded.

Harry left his four-poster bed very reluctantly.

Hours later, he and the other Gryffindor fourth-years were waiting outside the Defense classroom as a group; Professor Moody had quickly made an impression, and Harry sensed that was going to continue.

When the door unlocked itself, the group rushed in about as quickly as humanly possible; Harry, Ron, and Hermione took seats in the front row and pulled their books from their bags. The class was quiet. Soon they all heard the professor's distinctive clunking footsteps.

The professor came into view and stomped over to his desk, sitting down. "You can put those away," he said, pointing at the books now sitting on student desks, "those books. You won't need them."

Harry noticed Ron was looking excited.

Moody took out a register, shook his long hair out of his face, and began to call names. His magical eye spun wildly and fixed on each student who raised their hands after their name was called. He nodded with each raised hand. When he was done taking roll he put the register away.

"Right," he began in a growling voice. "I've been looking at the records of this class, where there are records at all. Your first professor left little and they don't say much." He shook his head. "The records of your second year aren't worth using as fire-starters." Another shake of the head. "Your professor last year, at least, the one at the feast in September, had you doing practical work, and that was probably a great idea. Pity he died," growled Moody. "So your three years in Defense have been uneven at best."

He stomped his clawed foot on the floor hard, making a tremendous bang. Most of the class jumped, startled. "Pay attention," he growled.

"One thing I see," he began again, but stopped. "One of the many things I see," he corrected, "is the lack of discussion of curses. You're completely uninformed, unless you've been reading on your own, on what wizards can do to each other to really harm them. Whether they're legal or not, usually not." He squinted with his natural eye. The magical eye kept moving independently.

It seemed to Harry that Professor Moody was aiming for some effect, but whatever it was, was not clear.

He began talking again in his low, growling voice. "How many of you saw the papers after the Quidditch final this summer, and read about the riot, if you weren't there?"

Everyone raised their hands.

"Then you saw, or read, or both, a glimpse at the sort of things some elements of our community do for their entertainment." The growl seemed especially harsh. "And just think … no one was killed, no one was even badly hurt. So far as anyone knows." The magical eye continued to move on its own.

Professor Moody was staring at the entire class now. His thin slash of a mouth looked even thinner. The natural eye was squinted. The magical eye was still and pointed in the same direction.

"The Ministry would have you believe that what precipitated the riot was a completely isolated event. The Ministry would have you believe that, even though not a single one of the people in masks was arrested."

Suddenly, Moody was holding his wand. It sparked threateningly. "Sometimes, there are consequences."

If Moody was aiming to raise the tension in the room, he had gotten it.

"So. Let's start. Straight into it. Curses. They come in many shapes and forms. Some of them hurt you, in many ways. Some can kill if you're hit badly enough. Some are to control you. Most of them are illegal, or dangerous, or both."

The natural eye began to move back and forth, surveying the class. "How many of you have an inkling of what are the most heavily punished curses in our law?"

Most of the class raised their hands. Hermione had raised hers first, to the surprise of nobody.

Moody pointed to Ron. Harry and the rest turned to look.

"Er, my dad told me about one," Ron began. "Is it the Imperius Curse?"

Moody nodded. "Ah, yes. A lot of trouble that one's been over the years, the Imperius."

He pulled something from the desk and moved to stand at the front of the room. It was a jar containing several spiders. Harry saw Ron shudder a little.

Moody conjured a stand, opened the jar, and pulled one of the spiders from it. He tapped the spider with his wand and muttered a single word: _"Imperio!"_

Instantly the spider leaped from the stand and began quickly spinning a thread. As it spun the thread, it began swinging back and forth as if performing on a trapeze. It leaped back to the stand, still trailing thread, which then cut off. Once on the stand it began performing cartwheels and flips, and then it stood on two of its eight legs and began what was unmistakeably a tap dance.

Nearly everyone laughed. Harry saw that Moody was not laughing.

"Think it's funny?" He was definitely growling, not just speaking in a growling voice. "You'd like that, huh, if I did it to you?"

The laughter cut off immediately. Moody nodded curtly. He jerked his wand, and the spider continued doing its impossible acrobatics.

"Total control," he said, pointing to the spider. "I can make this spider do anything I want. Anything at all. I could make it throw itself out a window, drown itself, throw itself down one of your throats."

Moody jerked his wand again. The acrobatics cut off. "The Imperius Curse can make you do a lot of things. Nasty things, whatever the person who's cast it on you wants."

No one was laughing. Moody had the class's full attention. "Years back, when you all were very young, back further to before you were born, there was a time when the Imperius Curse was very popular. It was illegal then and it still is now, but some wizards and witches don't care about those details."

Moody threw the spider away. Perhaps the rubbish bin was some kind of trap, Harry thought, which would hold the spider or kill it.

"So. Anyone know another? Another of those most heavily punished curses?"

Harry was surprised to see Neville Longbottom raise his hand. Neville seemed a bit surprised at his own daring.

Moody nodded at him.

"There's one," Neville began. "The Cruciatus Curse."

Moody looked especially cold, but nodded. "Indeed there is."

From the jar, Moody pulled a second spider. He tapped it with his wand and it swelled in size until it was much bigger than even a tarantula had the right to be.

"It needs to be bigger for you to get the idea," Moody muttered. He pointed his wand. _"Crucio!"_

Instantly the spider seemed to close in on itself. Its legs curled up as if it were trying to get some protection, but there was no protection to be had. The spider somehow began to jerk back and forth, but then suddenly it cut off.

"Pain," said Moody. "Pain far beyond any you've ever experienced. Pray you're lucky so that you never do. You don't need any tools but your wand to torture someone if you can perform the Cruciatus Curse. That one was very popular years ago too."

Moody threw the spider in the bin.

"Anyone know another?" he asked. "One to top off?"

Hermione raised her hand again. Harry saw that it was trembling. Moody pointed to her.

Hermione stood up from her seat. _"Avada Kedavra."_

Even without a wand in her hand it was chilling to hear. Moody nodded curtly.

"Yes. The last, and most say the worst."

He pulled a spider out of the jar and placed it on the desk. He then made it swell in size, not nearly as much as the second spider though. Perhaps the spider knew what was coming, because it started to scurry away. Harry watched Moody point his wand in its direction, and knew the spider would not escape at all.

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!"_ Moody roared.

There was a blinding flash of green light and a rushing sound, and the spider rolled over in its place, unmarked but unmistakeably dead. He picked up the dead spider and threw it in the bin.

"Not nice," he muttered. "Not pleasant. And there's no counter-curse. There's no known magical way to block it, nothing that's understood. The only person ever known to survive is sitting right in front." Harry saw that Moody was staring directly at him.

Harry looked down at his desk and other thoughts began to distract him. So this was how his parents had died … exactly like that spider.

But Moody was still speaking. He talked a little more about those three curses. They were called, as a group, the Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one of them on a human being could instantly earn the caster a life sentence in Azkaban.

"Get out your quills," he growled, "and start copying this down."

While proceeding lessons with Moody were nowhere near as exciting as the first, they were always interesting, and Harry's fourth year seemed to be going reasonably well in most fronts. There were classes he enjoyed and classes he did not; none of either category had changed.

Weeks passed. The lack of Quidditch, or even training for Quidditch, was a big damper on the year. Harry still made time to fly when he could, but with four of the other five players starting N.E.W.T coursework, and Katie Bell preparing for her looming Ordinary Wizarding Levels, the members of the team were not meeting as a team at all.

In the middle of October, Defense lessons took a startling turn: Professor Moody announced at the beginning of one class that he would be putting the Imperius Curse on people to test their ability to fight.

Hermione had protested that, but Moody's way of retorting her argument left it certain she would not miss the lesson. Harry and Ron had grinned at each other to hear it.

Moody cleared away the desks with a sweep of his wand, leaving most of the room bare. The professor's desk was set at the front of the room, and Moody had the Gryffindors get in line, to be called up one by one.

Harry watched his classmates do quite amusing and unusual actions under the curse. Moody tested the girls first. He had them all imitating animals, possibly out of consideration for propriety. None showed any resistance, not even Hermione, which Harry was quite amazed by. He had thought she might show some.

When it was time for the boys, the commands became more laughable. Seamus Finnigan was made to do numerous cartwheels and back-flips and other forms of gymnastics; Neville Longbottom was forced to do the same. While Harry thought Seamus might have been able to do some of them ordinarily, it was plainly clear Neville would not have been able to perform any of the stunts without being under the curse. Yet both performed flawlessly and without delay.

Dean Thomas hopped three times around the room, singing "God Save the Queen" in a horrible falsetto.

Ron was made to skip and jump on alternating legs, back and forth, four times around the room anti-clockwise.

Neither Ron nor Dean had shown any resistance either.

Finally, with alphabetical order violated – Harry suspected Moody had deliberately saved him for last – Moody beckoned him to come forward.

"Potter," the professor called in his growling voice, "you last. To wrap up."

Harry moved forward into the cleared middle of the classroom, not sure what to expect at all. Moody raised his wand, pointed it at Harry, and said _"Imperio!"_

A rush of happiness overtook Harry, a stronger and deeper rush than he had ever felt in his life. It washed away all his concerns as if he was the land being swept clean by the sea. Harry was only dimly aware of everyone else watching as he waited for a command, still caught by the total lack of care he felt for anything at all.

What was there to be troubled about in the world when one was bound in this sort of happiness, he could only think.

A voice inserted itself into his mind, a growling voice he recognized as Moody: "Jump onto the desk."

But some sort of sense in Harry was stirring, a sense of revulsion at this foreign idea. There was no reason to jump onto the desk. It was a rather silly thing to do.

Moody's voice grew louder. The sense of Harry himself grew stronger still.

Finally the voice of Moody was a virtual roar: _"JUMP ONTO THE DESK RIGHT NOW!"_

And Harry was suddenly in pain. He became aware that he was lying face-down on the floor; he seemed to have jumped straight up, but landed badly and fallen. He did not think he was injured, but until he moved he couldn't be sure.

He heard Moody's voice, this time in his ears and not his mind. "Look at that there, you lot! Potter fought it! Damn right he fought it! He bloody near beat it completely! Well done, Potter, well done indeed! They'll have a devil of a time controlling _you!_" Moody was clearly exultant.

Harry shuddered as he tried to rise from the floor. No longer under the curse, he felt as if he'd made some kind of utterly vast mental effort; his head was pounding and he felt very drained.

In spite of this, Moody insisted on putting Harry through the curse again, and then a third time. On the third go, Harry threw if off completely without acting on the command at all. After the happiness fog in his mind had cleared, he ached all over and felt like he wanted to collapse for a solid week.

Harry could think of nothing for the rest of that day; his mind was in a kind of torpor. He would not recall later if he had even eaten dinner that night.

On Friday, the thirtieth of October, at half-five in the evening, with the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang due to arrive within the hour, the entire school assembled outside the castle, each house naturally grouped together.

Professor McGonagall walked amongst the students, issuing orders. When she was around the fourth-year Gryffindors she seemed especially keen to have everyone looking sharp: Parvati Patil was ordered to remove a large ornamental butterfly from her hair, McGonagall being rather cold when she told Parvati off for wearing it. Parvati looked rather hurt; Harry was not impressed by McGonagall's harshness. He thought the ornament had looked rather nice, and he didn't see how it was hurting anyone.

But Professor McGonagall had moved on to another set of Gryffindors and Harry knew that speaking up would have been worse than futile regardless.

It was Beauxbatons that arrived first of the visiting delegations, in an enormous powder-blue carriage the size of a large house, pulled by a dozen winged horses each as big as an elephant. Harry thought the winged horses were Abraxans but he was not certain.

From Beauxbatons' carriage, once its doors had come open, first stepped a woman who was certainly a sight. She was easily the tallest and largest woman Harry had ever seen; indeed, she looked not a jot smaller than did Hagrid. Harry was sure there was not an inch's difference in their heights. She was a handsome woman despite her great size, and on her vast hands she wore several rings on the thick fingers. Dumbledore approached her, and he did not have to stoop at all, nor she to bend, for him to kiss her hand in greeting.

The woman, whom Dumbledore called "Madame Maxime", airily waved her vast left arm as the eligible students of Beauxbatons came out of the carriage. They were all wearing robes in a light blue color; Harry watched as some of them shivered from the chill of the air. Harry wondered if perhaps Beauxbatons was in the south of France, where it was certainly a deal warmer than the far northern moors of Scotland.

One of the Beauxbatons students, apparently a witch, had her face wrapped up in her scarf and a shawl and even what seemed a muffler.

While speculation about the Beauxbatons champion started amongst the Gryffindors, the Durmstrang delegation arrived in a great old ship which sprang up in the lake. It had an ominous look and feel to it, which enhanced the chill of the air and made everything seem gloomy. The Durmstrang students in the delegation were all wizards, and most of them were enormous.

The man who headed Durmstrang's lot was altogether different. He was dressed in sleek and silver furs that exactly matched the color of his hair.

The man greeted Dumbledore warmly, and Dumbledore returned the greeting with what seemed the same level of fondness, but Harry saw that the man's smile did not reach his eyes. He was called "Professor Karkaroff", and he shook hands with both of his own.

To the definite surprise of Ron, Hermione, and Harry, among the Durmstrang delegates was Viktor Krum.

The delegation from Beauxbatons joined the Ravenclaw table, and to Ron's definite disappointment, the delegation from Durmstrang joined the Slytherins.

Draco Malfoy looked visibly thrilled to be seated next to Viktor Krum. Harry knew that Malfoy would be crowing about that for days, probably weeks, if it continued.

Soon the feast began. The visiting professors joined the Hogwarts staff table, as did Ludo Bagman and another senior British Ministry official. Though there were barely two dozen extra people in the Hall, it seemed vastly more full than it had ever been before.

Among the Beauxbatons students was a witch who was very beautiful with bright blue eyes and very long silvery-blonde hair, but he was somehow reminded of the Veela from the Quidditch World Cup. Most of the hall were staring openly at her seemingly without regard.

Dumbledore announced at the end of the feast that the Goblet of Fire would be set up in the Entrance Hall for eligible students to place slips of paper with their names in it, with an Age Line to prevent anyone under seventeen from crossing.

With that, the Great Hall was emptied and the school settled for the night.

The next morning, Fred and George Weasley found out that Dumbledore's Age Line worked very well indeed, as both of them sprouted long white beards after being hurled back by the line they had taken an aging potion to cross. Lee Jordan laughed hysterically as he accompanied them to the hospital wing; he had apparently been about to cross himself, but hadn't, as he had waited to see if Fred and George could.

Among the Hogwarts candidates that presented themselves that day were Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor, Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff, and a plethora of seventh years.

Harry was supporting Angelina for the Hogwarts champion, although he supposed Cedric Diggory would be alright. The rest of the Quidditch team were all backing Angelina, as were Ron and Hermione. Hermione said it would be good for Hogwarts' representative to be a witch.

The whole school seemed to seethe in anticipation for the Halloween feast.

Finally, that night, after the feast had been eaten and the dishes cleared away, the main event of the year had arrived.

Dumbledore rose from his seat and looked across the hall toward the Goblet of Fire. Nearly everyone in the hall looked as well. 

"The Goblet seems about ready to make its decisions," said Dumbledore. "Perhaps one more minute. I would ask that after each champion is selected, that they come forward and walk in front of the staff table and through that door," he pointed to a door in the rear of the hall, "into a chamber where they will receive crucial instructions for the first of their three tasks."

The flames of the Goblet suddenly turned red. Sparks flew. A tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred slip of parchment with it.

Dumbledore caught the parchment and held it at arm's length, to read it by the light of the again blue and white flames.

"The champion for Durmstrang." Dumbledore spoke in a strong, clear voice that echoed around the hall, "will be Viktor Krum!"

The entire hall cheered, no one louder than Professor Karkaroff. Viktor Krum rose from the Slytherin table, walked up to the staff dais, walked along the staff table, and exited the hall through the back.

While the other Durmstrang students looked a little more sour than before, everyone else seemed pleased. Ron was especially excited. Harry could not pretend he wasn't excited.

The flames of the Goblet intensified again, and turned red again. Another long tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred slip of parchment on it.

Dumbledore caught this slip as well, and held it again at arm's length. "The champion for Beauxbatons," he said in his strong voice, "will be Fleur Delacour!"

The cheers for this were rather mixed. Nearly every wizard in the hall cheered loudly; Harry saw that many witches, especially the ones from Beauxbatons, did not cheer at all. Most looked distinctly unhappy.

The French witch who resembled a Veela rose from the Ravenclaw table and performed the same exit procedure as had Viktor Krum.

The Goblet's flames were again blue and white. Harry crossed his fingers, hoping for Angelina Johnson's name to come out, or Cedric Diggory's, or any of the other names he had heard which were not Slytherin students.

The Goblet seemed to be taking a little time to make its choice. Finally, the flames turned red again, a brighter red this time. A long tongue of flame shot nearly to the ceiling, and a slip of parchment had come out with it. The Goblet's flames intensified further before they went out completely. The selection of champions was over.

The piece of paper floated down towards Dumbledore. He caught it, and held it at arm's length, seeming to relish this final chance to read. For a moment, everyone waited.

Hogwarts seemed to hold in its collective breath.

"The champion for Hogwarts," Dumbledore said in his clearest, strongest voice yet, "will be Cedric Diggory!"

Instantly the Hufflepuff table exploded into the loudest cheers Harry had ever heard them offer. Harry watched as the tall sixth-year Seeker rose from his place at the table and wend to the same destination as the other champions.

Harry felt sad for Angelina but he supposed Diggory would probably be alright. He wondered if Fleur Delacour played Quidditch; at least two of the three champions were Seekers. Ron said something about Diggory at least being better than any of the Slytherins.

"With the champions selected," Dumbledore was speaking again, "and the Goblet having ceased its flames … the Triwizard Tournament has begun. Mr Filch, if you would take the Goblet away?"

Filch rose from his seat at the staff table to do exactly that. Harry watched Ludo Bagman and the other Ministry representative walk out the back of the hall.

Dumbledore dismissed everyone, wishing them a good night. Gryffindor House marched out of the hall and made its way as a collective towards the seventh floor where the tower awaited them.

Harry's four-poster had never looked more inviting that night.

[M-V]

The dream changed …

He dreamed he was a spider swinging on a strand of its web in a dark, filthy little room, while a filthy man in filthy rags moaned on the floor. The man was completely unfamiliar to the spider form of Harry; he had matted black hair that hung to his elbows. He was thin; his waxy skin stretched over the bones of his face as if he were naught but skin and bone. If he were not visibly alive, he might have been a corpse. He might have been a vampire. He was neither. He was nobody Harry knew.

There was a newspaper on the top of the thin blanket on the thin mattress that made the filthy man's bed.

The dream changed …


	4. A Stabbing of Words (big rewrite)

Mid-morning on the first of November, a Sunday, less than twenty hours after the champions had been selected by the Goblet of Fire, saw the Gryffindor Quidditch team meeting in the changing rooms for the first time of the school year. They had not met in the rooms because there were no practices, and there were no practices because there would be no games.

"No Quidditch," Angelina began; she looked like she'd gotten over the strong disappointment she'd shown the night before. "No Quidditch, we know that. I thought we should all meet here anyway. To talk about next year. Now that we know the champions for the Triwizard, this seems a good time."

Alicia cleared her throat. "Angie and I have talked about this on and off for a few weeks. Next year, we need a new Keeper, and then at the end of the year four of us leave. It's not often that more than half a squad finishes at once. We ought to be scouting some potentials among the lower years now, before they're needed."

"Are you all planning to play in your N.E.W.T year," Katie asked.

Angelina nodded instantly. "I plan on leaping to the professional leagues." Alicia, Fred, and George all nodded as well.

"Is there anyone in the lower years who looks like a good fit for the Keeper slot," Angelina asked.

"Ron will definitely try out," Harry said, speaking for the first time. "Dean Thomas has also mentioned trying to make the team. He's in my dorm too."

"Anyone in third year or below," Angelina inquired. "Not just for the Keeper slot, we need to think about Chasers and Beaters too."

Harry shrugged.

Fred and George looked at each other for a few seconds. "We've been thinking the selection of the fine champions calls for drinks," pronounced George.

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie all stared at the twins. Harry was watching too, not sure if this was a good thing or not. Knowing the twins, he thought it might be a joke.

Fred Weasley stood up, pulled a box out of a pocket, and placed it on the ground. Tapping it a couple times with his wand and muttering something Harry could not hear, the box swelled in size. Harry thought it had probably been shrunk.

George opened the box. "We got this a few days ago, thinking of a way to celebrate. Don't ask us where." He sounded almost threatening.

Fred nodded. "But as it seems there's not a whole lot to celebrate, we might as well not let it be wasted." He pulled a large bottle from the box, and then six glasses.

Alicia whistled. "Blimey. That's strong stuff."

The fancy black label on the bottle read _Ogden's Finest Firewhiskey_. The print under the name said it had been aged five years in barrels of white oak.

Angelina laughed. "They don't open the barrels any sooner."

The bottle was soon opened and a measure of the amber-colored liquid was poured into four of the six glasses. Katie Bell declined when offered, and one glass was put away.

Alicia looked concerned. "Should Harry have any of that? He's young."

Fred and George looked at each other for a long minute, as if somehow conferring while in silence. "One glass shouldn't hurt him," Fred finally said.

George poured a measure into a fifth glass. They were all quite stiff drinks.

"Drink up," Alicia said. "To Hogwarts, to Cedric Diggory, to Quidditch, or whatever."

Harry held the glass close but did not drink yet. He watched Angelina drain hers in barely two seconds. She shuddered, then breathed a large stream of fire into the air. "Not bad," she said with a hiccup.

Alicia drained her glass but got a much smaller amount of flames.

Fred and George drained their glasses together. They breathed fire into the air, more than Alicia had, but less than Angelina. Both seemed a bit disappointed by the drink.

Harry decided it must be safe. He closed his eyes, tipped the glass back, and drank it in one pull.

The amber-colored liquid burned as it entered his mouth, and the burning intensified as it went down his throat. It was nothing at all like the oak-matured mead.

He shuddered, then breathed a stream of flames all the way to the ceiling. When the flames ceased, he let go of a massive, thundering belch that rattled the air, and went on far too long for his own comfort. When it was finally done he slumped in his seat, winded.

He had heard Angelina and Alicia swearing violently. Fred and George were laughing hysterically, tears rolling down their faces. He saw that Katie was just staring at him, mouth agape.

"You alright there, Harry?" George finally asked, his voice full of mirth.

Harry nodded. He wanted no more to do with the drink.

Angelina was now looking at Harry with a calculating expression. "There are rumors about firewhiskey," she said, a grin overcoming her face. "Funny stories about the drinkers."

Alicia snorted. "Tall tales, more like."

Fred and George now looked oddly thoughtful. "I don't think anyone knows for certain," Fred commented.

Harry felt as if the walls were closing in on him from the expressions on his teammates' faces.

The impromptu meeting broke up soon after, Fred and George saying they had an idea "for school pride."

[M-V]

The dream changed …

He dreamed he was a hiker in a distant forest, wandering almost aimlessly – except it was not aimless at all. The hiker was wandering not by sense of sight, not by his hearing, not by his sense of taste, nor by his sense of smell or his sense of touch. It was not a physical sense as the hiker's guide.

The man moved almost erratically but nearly ceaselessly, had moved in this jerking fashion for months, constantly changing the direction he was going a little at a time. Wandering and waiting, searching and feeling. All looking for something that he believed only he could find …

All looking for something that he, at last, had found …

The dream faded …

[M-V]

The first Monday of November saw the fruits of Fred and George Weasley's idea "for school pride" come to life. In the Gryffindor common room, before any of the Gryffindors headed down to breakfast, Fred and George were waiting for the house with boxes of yellow badges with black lettering. They were in support of Cedric Diggory. Fred and George convinced nearly everyone to wear them; only a few holdouts remained.

Hufflepuff quickly placed a mass order for Fred and George to make more of the badges. Much of Ravenclaw would be wearing them as well, as the first task approached.

Fred and George had looked quite chuffed when Professor Sprout awarded them twenty points apiece for their "fine show of school pride".

No member of Slytherin House was ever publicly spotted wearing one of the badges.

[M-V]

It was time for the First Task. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and virtually everone else in Gryffindor House … perhaps there were one or two choosing not to attend … had all piled into the Gryffindor stands. The stands for the other houses were, likewise, full. There was a stand for the foreign guests as well, though it was naturally smaller by a great deal.

Ludo Bagman from the Ministry was clearly having a grand time as the master of ceremonies. He was speaking in a ringing voice clearly at the top of his lungs.

"Students of all three schools, faculty members alike, and distinguished guests from all over the world – welcome to the First Task of this revived Triwizard Tournament! The first such tournament in well more than one hundred years!"

A dragon, clearly Stunned, was being brought in along with its nest by a team of over a dozen dragon-handlers. The crowd gasped. Harry could not help shudder … Norbert the baby Norwegian Ridgeback was definitely not preparation for this. When it seemed that the dragon and the handlers were ready, Bagman continued speaking.

"You all clearly see the dragon before you. When the first champion is ready – we will leave it a surprise who – they will be called forward. Their task is to _collect the golden egg!_"

The keepers now moved forward to magically awaken the dragon. When the dragon was aroused, it looked around and let loose a titanic roar. It closely hovered over its clutch of eggs.

Hermione almost fainted at the sound, and she clapped her hands over her ears. Ron looked quite ill. Harry was very glad he was not old enough to have submitted his name as a candidate.

"The champions will use any magic they think appropriate, though killing or severely injuring the dragon will heavily penalize them, to distract the dragon and retrieve the false egg from the nest."

Harry looked at the nest. There was the false egg; it was plainly visible even at this distance. As large as the other eggs, fully golden in color, it looked like a mockery of a goose egg all in gold.

"Because we are at Hogwarts, we wanted a native British dragon for the first champion, and we have one in the form of that Welsh Green you all see before you. The second school's champion will face a Swedish Short-Snout, and the final dragon faced will be a Hungarian Horntail. With that said, let the task begin!"

A horn blared loudly. Hundreds of feet away, a figure approached from a large tent. There could be no doubt that it was Fleur Delacour, yet she looked different with her curtain of silvery blonde hair tied back. She was holding her wand at her right side, pointing down at the ground. She moved to stand directly in front of the dragon, but well back from it; Harry thought she was probably out of reach of its fiery breath.

A provocation to the dragon, certainly, but probably not a strong one. At least, not to start off.

Fleur Delacour raised her wand, and began to run. She waved her wand in a complicated fashion as she ran; huge rocks began to spring up from under the ground. It seemed she was trying to give herself cover, Harry thought. Probably a good thing, too; he watched as the dragon blasted one of the rocks to pieces with a huge burst of flames. A warning, maybe, from the dragon to the champion not to get closer?

If it was a warning, it seemed to work, as Fleur Delacour did not close in further.

"A good strategy," Bagman called out. "What will she do next?"

Evidently, the answer was "move behind another rock", one almost directly in front of the dragon, yet still well back from the beast.

The Beauxbatons champion stayed behind that bit of cover for a long minute, then seemed to gather her nerve. She leaped out from behind the rock and shouted a spell in French; Harry did not know what it meant but he heard Hermione working through a possible translation under her breath. Something about sleep?

It must have been, for the dragon was quickly lulled to sleep by the spell. Small puffs of smoke and flame emerged from its huge nostrils.

"She must be a really powerful witch," Hermione said, clapping her hands. "I read that it usually takes at least six keepers working together just to Stun a dragon."

Ron nodded. "Charlie's talked about dragons' spell resistance in his letters before." He was clearly impressed.

Harry had nothing to add. He watched as Fleur Delacour, evidently satisfied by the dragon having fallen asleep but clearly winded from her magical output, quickly approached the dragon and snatched the false egg from the nest.

"_And she's done it_," cried Bagman. "Miss Delacour has finished the task in not a handful of minutes! That will surely pile pressure on the other champions!"

The keepers all quickly moved in to move the Welsh Green out. It was a laborious task; they began by Stunning the beast just to make sure it did not awaken.

There were four judges; it had been announced in the papers as a change in the scoring procedure after a last-minute complaint had been upheld. Ludo Bagman was representing the only Ministry being represented; the three school heads were the others.

Madam Maxime awarded Fleur Delacour a full ten points. Dumbledore followed with a nine; Hermione wondered aloud what he was marking her down for. Karkaroff followed – seven. Hermione was clearly disgusted by that. Ludo Bagman awarded the Beauxbatons champion nine points also, for a total of thirty-five.

"She should have gotten full marks from all of them," Hermione groused.

Harry and Ron both ended up agreeing; Harry in part just to get her to shut up.

[M-V]

Three days after the first task, which Viktor Krum had won – though Harry thought Fleur Delacour should have, and Hermione had been extremely vocal and angry about the fact – there was a distraction.

**AZKABAN BROKEN**

NOTORIOUS PRISONER ESCAPES

_In the hundreds of years that Azkaban prison has been in use, there has never before been a single escape. Not one. That record is now broken and lost to history._

_Sirius Black, age thirty-four, sentenced to Azkaban for a massacre in 1981 where twelve Muggles and a wizard were murdered with a single curse, has broken free and is now at large. Black, one of the most infamous prisoners ever to reside at Azkaban, rumored to have been the unknown right-hand man of He Who Must Not Be Named, was in a maximum security cell, and escaped through methods yet to be determined._

_Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge had the following remarks: "It's a shock. Unthinkable. Yet it's happened. We don't know what Black is after or how he got free, but rest assured we will do everything we can to get him back."_

_The head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Amelia Bones, did not shed light on any details so far known._

_Black appears to have taken nothing from the prison; every feature of his cell was left intact. The only thing of note left behind was a copy of the Daily Prophet from late in October, which Minister Fudge acknowledged having given to Black while on a surprise inspection of Azkaban: "I was surprised he asked for it. I had already read the whole paper, I only hadn't thrown it away, so I gave it to him. You can bet that we're looking through it for anything that might have caught Black's interest and lead to this escape."_

_Black is not believed to have a wand, but is considered to be extremely dangerous nonetheless. On no account should any of the magical community approach him if he is sighted._

Hogwarts buzzed for weeks, well into December, but there was no further news.

[M-V]

"Potter! Weasley! _Will you pay attention?_"

Harry started; Ron jerked his head around. It was close to the holidays; both had stopped attempting to change their guinea fowl into guinea pigs; neither had been terribly interested, and so they had started having a mock sword-fight with a couple of Fred and George's fake wands. McGonagall had seemed to be ignoring them; evidently that was not to last.

Hermione tutted as Harry and Ron shifted in their seats to face the front of the room. Professor McGonagall wore a look of slight annoyance; perhaps she was giving them some latitude.

"Now that Potter and Weasley have joined us," she began sarcastically – all hope for latitude vanished – "I have something to say to you all." The professor's voice was as sharp as normal.

"One of the festivities that accompanies the Triwizard Tournament is a traditional Yule Ball, that is to say, a dance," Harry's stomach fell at these words, but McGonagall was still speaking, "to be held on Christmas night. It is not required, indeed, traditionally it was for older students, but this year it has been opened to everyone in third year and up." McGonagall cleared her throat. "Third years may only attend at the invitation of an older partner, but fourth years such as yourselves may seek dates if you care to do so." The professor looked very stern. Then suddenly she began to look rather uncomfortable.

"The Yule Ball provides us all a chance to … er … let our hair down."

Lavender Brown let out a shrill giggle. Parvati Patil was smiling brightly. Professor McGonagall's face had become stony again; Harry could not imagine that she had ever let her hair down in any sense.

"Dress robes are to be worn," the professor continued, "and I should warn you: I will look very unfavorably on any Gryffindors who do not behave. Very, very unfavorably indeed."

Lavender giggled harder than ever. Harry was very annoyed that McGonagall chose to ignore this, since she had told him and Ron off for the mock sword-fight.

"You are all dismissed," the professor said at length. "No assignment this time, but keep up on your reading and your practice."

The Gryffindors began to file out. Harry thought that McGonagall wanted to call him over by the expression on her face, but perhaps at the last instant she decided otherwise.

The news of the Yule Ball swept through the student body very rapidly. Rumors about who was going with who were quick to follow. Harry had never known Hogwarts to be this excited before. Evidently a holiday dance was a much more interesting thing to go to than a small nearby town.

It was a sudden shock to Harry that in spite of large chunks of the previous years being spent as anything from a semi-outcast to a full outcast in the student body, he was still desirable as an escort. A particularly small third-year Hufflepuff witch he didn't know the name of had been the first; Harry had turned her down before he realized he'd been asked, and had seen a hurt face before he fled.

A brutish girl at least a year older than him, and more than a foot taller, had less asked him than ordered him to be her date; it seemed to Harry that he had barely escaped with his life.

That story would hang around the common room for some time.

Harry was not at all sure he wanted to go at all; the thought of dancing made his insides curl up and shrivel. Yet a weekend of thought made him decide that if he was going to ask a girl to the ball, it should be someone who was at least very unlikely to laugh at him. He found his chance at dinner on the Monday after the announcement had gone out. The six members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team were sitting clustered together, and Harry took his chance.

"Katie," he said, hoping his voice was casual. "Do you think you'd mind going to the Yule Ball with me?" He prayed that he sounded normal.

She seemed surprised, and he caught the hint of a blush as she looked down at her plate. "I don't think I'd mind at all." She sounded quite happy to have been asked.

Harry had no doubts that his instant feeling was relief.

The identity of his date swept through Gryffindor that night; in his own dormitory, Seamus and Dean both seemed impressed, Seamus congratulating him on getting an older girl for his date; Neville Longbottom seemed a bit distracted, more so than usually; Ron also seemed to be all grin. It was very odd, as Harry knew that Ron had not yet asked anyone. Perhaps he'd made up his mind to.

The news circulated quickly enough about the champions' choices of escorts. Fleur Delacour would apparently be attending with Roger Davies, a Ravenclaw sixth-year who was on their Quidditch team as a Chaser. Cedric Diggory had asked Cho Chang, and she had accepted, supposedly after turning down more than a dozen others according to one rumor. Viktor Krum's date remained a mystery.

There continued to be nothing about Sirius Black in the papers. Either the newspaper had been ordered to keep quiet, or there was no news to print.

Hogwarts was coming to be buried in snow as Christmas approached.

On Christmas night, the Gryffindors who were going to the ball with other Gryffindors all met in the common room between seven and eight. The Great Hall would open at eight o'clock.

Harry thought that Katie Bell looked beautiful in her dark blue robes. She had a Gryffindor scarf around her neck; Harry thought it was probably to compensate for the robes, the color of which matched Ravenclaw. She seemed to like his own bottle-green robes, saying that he "cleaned up nicely" and that the green brought out his eyes. They stood in silence as other Gryffindors came down the stairs.

It turned out that Seamus Finnigan would be taking Parvati Patil, who was looking very pretty in robes of shocking pink, with several bracelets on her wrists. Dean Thomas and Lavender Brown were going together; Lavender was dressed in light blue robes that resembled the sky on a cloudless day. Neville Longbottom was accompanying Ginny Weasley. Lilith Moon and Sophie Roper both were going with Gryffindor fifth-years; Lilith with Jack Sloper and Sophie with Andrew Kirke.

Neither Ron nor Hermione were anywhere to be seen as eight o'clock approached, and it was time for the Gryffindors to head down to the Great Hall.

The school's entrance hall was very full. Katie pointed out a few people in her year who Harry did not know; Harry nodded at some of the other students in his year he got along with.

At precisely eight o'clock the doors to the Great Hall opened. The champions went in first: Viktor Krum wearing Durmstrang colors, escorting a dark-haired girl in canary yellow robes whom Harry did not recognize; Fleur Delacour looking stunning in pale gray satin, led by Roger Davies who was clearly overwhelmed; Cedric Diggory was indeed escorting Cho Chang; Harry's stomach flip-flopped a little, but he was well pleased by his own date and did not let his eyes linger on the Ravenclaw Seeker.

Most of the hall was cleared. The four house tables were gone. There was a table at the head of the hall which looked like it would probably seat everyone.

Harry saw that Professor McGonagall was wearing Gryffindor scarlet, with a wreath of thistles around her hat. She held a scroll which was probably a list of names.

Harry and Katie walked to the large table and took seats next to each other. The usual gold plates and utensils were present but there were no large serving platters. Instead there were menus.

Harry did not pay much attention to the food; it was nothing memorable that night, simply as good as the food at Hogwarts always was.

The first dance, about seven minutes long, was only for the three champions and their escorts. After that everyone was let in.

Harry and Katie were not interrupted overly much. He danced a few songs with witches in Gryffindor, but mostly he danced with his date, trying his best not to step on her toes. Keyed up in anticipation, he thought he had succeeded.

Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson made their usual snotty comments on a couple of occasions while Harry danced with Katie, but even those did not seem to have the usual heat. Malfoy's black velvet robes and high collar made him look rather like a vicar in Harry's opinion; Pansy Parkinson was dressed in pale pink robes that did nothing flattering.

Harry and Katie watched as Professor McGonagall danced several dances with Professor Moody, whose clunking steps had been silenced and whose magical eye fixed itself on each student who passed nearby. Dumbledore was partnering Olympe Maxime; Dumbledore's robes looked like the night sky and he sported a black tophat which looked quite out of place. Madame Maxime was dressed in a light blue like her school's student robes. Dumbledore and Madame Maxime looked very fine dancing together despite the more than five foot difference in their heights. Professor Karkaroff of Durmstrang sat at the head table alone, scowling at everyone, before leaving the hall around eleven.

Professor Sinistra, who taught Astronomy - a subject which Katie confided in Harry that she intended to drop after her O.W.L exams, Harry replying that he probably would do the same thing - was dancing with tiny Professor Flitwick. Professor Sprout was walking among the dancing couples, stopping sometimes to talk to one student pair or another.

Finally the ball ended just after midnight. Harry and Katie had enjoyed a brief walk outside in the chilly air. They saw Professor Snape speaking with the Durmstrang headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, but were not close enough to them to hear anything of the conversation. The walk took them through a garden where Hagrid was looking up at the stars; he waved at them and they waved back, but did not stop to speak.

Eventually they returned to Gryffindor tower and bid each other goodnight.

[M-V]

He dreamed that he was a clown performing tricks and playing games for a king in the king's court. His suit of clothes was a violent shade of red. The king and his advisers all laughed at Harry's performance and cheered him on. Greatly encouraged, Harry began to perform stunts that were even more daring …

The dream changed …

He dreamed that Neville and Professor Sprout were waltzing around the Great Hall at dinner while Professor McGonagall played the bagpipes …

The dream changed …

He dreamed that he was eating dinner at a very posh London restaurant with Tracey Davies, an attractive Slytherin girl in his year. He knew her to be Roger Davies' younger sister; she shared his fair skin and dark hair, and had the same piercing blue eyes. The dream version of Harry looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. The older Tracey was drawing many stares for her impressively voluptuous figure clothed in a nearly floor-length black evening gown; the older Harry had long since become tired of seeing those stares. His woman wore a platinum wedding ring on her right hand.

The dream changed …

He dreamed that he was a cat riding a flying marlin, playing Seeker for England, against a team of dogs from Peru …

The dream faded …

He awoke in his four-poster bed to find himself in a pool of sweat. Drenched to the skin, the room seeming to be baking hot, he looked at the clock on the wall. It was barely four in the morning.

Seamus was muttering to himself as he slept. Neville snuffled in his sleep. An owl hooted somewhere out in the night.

Harry did not think his dorm-mates would forgive him if he opened the window. Resignedly he pulled fresh clothes from his trunk, staggered off to the shower for the coldest washing he could manage, then went downstairs.

Quidditch or not, he would fly in the daylight …

[M-V]

OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION (opened)

Memorandum No. ##########

Dated: ##/##/####

Sending: ^%(^&amp;(%^&amp;%

Receive: *&amp;^$%#%^

As of this writing, the primary subject is showing the first signs of emergence. However, unstable factors in the emergence are likely to show themselves. An extra source of monitoring looks like a reasonable idea if it can be arranged.

OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION (closed)

OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION (opened)

Memorandum No. ##########

Dated: ##/##/####

Sending: *&amp;^$%#%^

Receive: ^%(^&amp;(%^&amp;%

The suggestion of an extra source of monitoring has been received. At this time, we do not wish to invite any more scrutiny than we already endure.

Clarify what is meant by "unstable factors".

OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION (closed)

[M-V]

He left for the Quidditch pitch as soon as curfew ended. He found, when he got to the pitch, that he was not the only person who had the idea of flying on their mind; there was one other.

Harry did not mind, and the pitch was far more than large enough for two fliers honing their skills alone. The chances that they would interrupt each other seemed very remote.

He started with simple, very wide turns, which did not press his Nimbus Two Thousand at all. It had been months since he'd gotten to fly at all though, and he felt just a bit out of form. He was not flying at the broom's highest speed either.

Slowly he tightened his turning radius and raised the speed as he flew around the pitch. He did an occasional loop.

When he had finally reached the point of the tightest turns he could pull off, at the highest speed, he started on steep dives. The Nimbus obeyed his every move with just light touches; it really was an excellent broom.

The other flier was on a Firebolt. Harry wondered how much better the Firebolt was. Both teams in the Quidditch World Cup final had their entire rosters on them.

Harry watched the other flier as surreptitiously as he could. They moved with the broom as if they were completely weightless and not using a broomstick at all; at least as easily as any flying bird. The turns and loops and dives the flier could pull off were much tighter or sharper than what Harry could do with the Nimbus.

Harry had only ever seen one person fly so effortlessly. Only one person, who happened to be staying at Hogwarts this year.

[M-V]

"You fly vell. Vit that Nimbus."

It had been a strange, largely one-sided conversation.

"The judges behaved as I expected."

"I showed them all I vanted to show them. Everyone knows Krum flies vell."

"Delacour vill be dangerous. I am less sure about Hogwarts' champion. The score is still close, at least."

"The lake may be cold for Hogwarts. It is not cold for Durmstrang."

"I hope you vill choose to play Quidditch, Harry Potter. Vit the Firebolt … or the broomsticks of that time … something to see, I think. But dere is another subject of which I vant to speak vit you."

"Radiance. Do not forget."

"You vill see. Do not forget."

Krum had clapped Harry on the shoulder, and then, he had gone.

Radiance …

Harry had no idea at all what he had meant.

[M-V]

The dream changed …

Snape was meeting with Dumbledore in the Headmaster's office. Snape was talking, his voice was completely unlike any Harry had heard the professor use before. It was vibrant, determined …

Snape showed Dumbledore something on his left arm, something Harry could not see.

More discussion. The Headmaster seemed completely serene. He asked Snape if Snape was still committed. Snape assured Dumbledore that he was, his voice still with the curious determination.

Dumbledore smiled.

The dream changed …

He dreamed that he was scaling a very tall mountain, swaddled in clothing meant to fight off the fearful cold, but which was not doing a very good job of it. All the footholds were perilous, if they were there at all. All that kept him from falling to his death were ropes and an axe. But he was determined … he was always determined.

There was still a long way to climb …

The dream changed …

He dreamed that he was a lion in a zoo, sunning himself on a big flat rock. There were many humans watching him. It was still some time before sundown. The sun was only beginning to set.

His lioness padded over to him and laid down beside him. He looked away from the human children and into his lioness' silvery gray eyes.

Some of the humans took photographs.

Harry the lion roared …

The dream changed …

He dreamed that he was a huge black dog walking on a sandy stony beach …

[M-V]

An unpleasant surprise came for him at breakfast on the first Monday of January, which was the first day of term. It was an article in the _Daily Prophet_.

**HOLIDAY BELLS**

by R. Skeeter

_With the holidays having just ended, and a wonderful Christmas and New Year it was, it makes me think of presents and eggnog and singing and snow and many other innocent things. And who could forget that the ongoing Triwizard Tournament just celebrated the Christmas occasion with the traditional Yule Ball? Well, fear not, faithful readers, because if you are one of those who forgot, I am here to tell you all about it._

_There were many sights to see that night in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. There was Albus Dumbledore dancing with the Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy, Olympe Maxime; Dumbledore somehow lacking his usual flair given the five foot or more disadvantage to his partner's height. An unusual sight indeed._

The article was dreadfully written:

"_Viktor Krum, famous Quidditch champion, dancing with his escort, twenty year old Elena Molotov, a Russian witch noted as an exceptional prodigy in the field of Potions research, who is rumored to possess ties of blood to the criminal underworld in the vast frozen nation" …_

"_The Beauxbatons' champion Fleur Delacour, radiant in silver satin, with her Ravenclaw escort who could not possibly have looked more overwhelmed" …_

Harry was disgusted by the text.

"_The real prize of the night, at least for students of a certain age, was one certain fourth year in Gryffindor House. Yes, indeed, I refer to Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived."_ …

Harry's eyes narrowed as he read what the article had said about himself.

"_Dressed in bottle green robes, dancing with his date, he looked quite content. The scoop is his date's identity; she is none other than a fifth year Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team for which Harry Potter happens to play Seeker, one Katherine Bell."_

Harry felt cold. What was the article about to do?

"_While Miss Bell certainly looked the part of one of the belles of the ball, the prevailing reaction to Potter's choice of companion was one of confusion._

"_'Of course everyone thought Potter would go with Hermione Granger', one student told me. 'She and he are always together.' Naturally this had to be investigated. The girl so named is in Potter's Gryffindor cohort, and is apparently his girlfriend – or so it seemed! 'I didn't even see her in the Hall that night', another student told me. 'Heartbroken, she must have been – probably stayed in their tower and cried.'"_

"_Is a romance blooming in the winter while another lies buried under the snow?"_

Harry snorted. The article and its implications were now laughable. He found himself quite sure that the students who gave those comments to the writer had been Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson.

The article went on for some time, insulting nearly everyone named, but there was nothing more related to himself.

He realized later that he did not especially like seeing his name in the paper, especially with only stupid gossip and useless rumors attached; nor did he enjoy seeing the names of people he considered to be his friends, especially not when those names were accompanied by snide and meant-to-be-hurtful comments.

It was even less pleasant when Snape read that section of the dreadful article aloud in the Potions lesson Harry had to endure the next day. He had to endure Snape's mocking read while Malfoy sniggered, Crabbe and Goyle chortled trollishly, and Pansy Parkinson made a lackluster attempt to appear aloof. Snape pointedly ignored the antics of all his house's students, as always.

That Saturday, after a rather long week, Harry was talking about the article and a few other problems with Hagrid.

"Yeh learn to ignore a lot of what's in the papers, Harry" the groundskeeper had told him. "Rotten people write rotten things. They're trolls, and the thing about trolls is, they break into yer house with their clubs, bash yer stuff about 'til it breaks, then they shit on everything yeh love."

Harry had laughed. Hagrid had a way with words at times.

[M-V]

He noticed, over the next few days, that he was becoming more sure in all of his movements. It was a slight thing, but still enough to recognize. Every step, every motion of his hands and wrists, every turn of his waist, every lift of his arms; all of them had become quicker and stronger, even compared to the way they had been before. He wondered if this would have any impact on how he flew a broomstick, but where he really noticed it was in finally achieving real dominance over a wand …

On the last Saturday of January, he was sitting out under the great beech tree by the lake after lunch, reading a paper written on Summoning and Banishing Charms, when Fleur Delacour joined him.

"You are 'arry Potter, _oui__?_" She asked, her voice light but throaty. He thought he heard laughter in her voice, but he might have imagined it.

Harry shrugged. "So I've been told. What brings you here... Miss Delacour?"

"Do you believe I sought you out directly?" Her voice was now definitely amused; instead of merely talking, it seemed almost as though she were singing. She sat down slightly around the tree from him.

Harry shrugged again, unwilling to verbally respond. He thought it was obvious.

"Well, you were not correct," she said, but Harry thought by her tone that she was probably lying. "I was thinking about ze next task, wanted to sit under zis tree, and you are 'ere only by coincidence."

Harry was now certain she was not being truthful. Not completely, at any rate.

"Zis lake – what do you know about eet?" She moved to be visible to him, but was staring at the lake.

Harry was taken aback, That seemed an odd question. Then he remembered Krum implying the Second Task was going to involve the lake somehow.

"Not much," Harry replied truthfully. "It's pretty deep. There's a giant squid that lives in it, and I think there might be grindylows." That was about the extent of his knowledge. "Oh, and there are rumors of a merpeople colony, but that could be a story."

Fleur nodded. "I am not looking forward to zis task, 'arry Potter."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Oh? Why not?"

She looked him in the eyes. "I will be at a disadvantage. Fire magic is a thing I love, but eet will be no use."

The pull he had felt from the Veela at the World Cup was active with Fleur Delacour, Harry had noticed months ago, but it was dampened. He had never been close to her, but now that he was, he wondered if he dared ask.

Harry decided he did dare. "May I ask you a question, Miss Delacour? A personal one?"

She gave him an appraising look. "You may ask. I may not answer."

Harry nodded. That was fair. "Are you a Veela?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Do you take offense?" Harry could feel that she was taking offense.

Harry shook his head. "Why would I?"

Fleur stared at him for a long minute. "Some do." She looked away, then looked back. "_Non_, I am not Veela. I 'ave Veela blood."

Harry nodded. He was satisfied with her answer, and didn't think to inquire further, but after a long minute she elaborated anyway.

"_Ma __grand-mère_ – ze muzzer of my muzzer – she is a Veela. Do you know how eet inherits, 'arry Potter?"

Harry shook his head. He hadn't been interested enough in Veela to do any research.

"My grandmother, as you say, 'er 'usband is a wizard. So 'er daughter is 'alf Veela. My muzzer, 'er 'usband is also a wizard. So I and my seester, Gabrielle, we are quarter Veela. If a true Veela marries a Muggle, ze daughters weel be true Veela."

Harry thought about this for a second, and decided to guess. "No magic to interfere with the Veela magic?"

"_Oui._"

Harry nodded. He decided not to ask her anything personal again. "What's it like at Beauxbatons?"

Fleur smiled, perhaps mollified. "Eet is lovely. I believe Beauxbatons is more beautiful zan 'ogwarts, but I weel admit, your school 'as more land surrounding eet."

Harry nodded at the obvious non-answer. He knew immediately she wasn't going to reveal anything important. He decided to return to the topic of the Tournament. "I thought you should have won the First Task," he said.

Fleur smiled slightly. "Sank you." Her eyes were very blue. "I 'ope to do better in ze second. I weel not be satisfied with second place." Harry could tell this was something of bravado; she was not confident.

For a while they sat quietly, then Fleur looked directly at Harry with an expression on her face that Harry could not identify. "Ze 'ogwarts champion, _Monsieur_ Diggory, what is your impression of 'im?"

Harry did not immediately know how to respond. He wasn't sure what she wanted. "Diggory? I don't really know him, but he seems alright. He plays fair on the Quidditch pitch."

Fleur nodded, evidently satisfied with the response. They talked for only a little while longer; she expressed disappointment that he had not elected to study Runes, saying she found it enormously useful. Eventually she stood up, saying "I weel 'ope for your support in ze tasks, 'arry Potter. Good day to you."

The sensation of her magic disappeared as she left.

Harry wondered what she thought she had gained.

[M-V]

The dream changed …

He dreamed that he was a tall, thin man wearing clothes made of animal skins. He was stalking an alpha beast with the intention of killing, and taking a sample of itself for the core of a new wand. He had already wounded the beast with his spear, but it had escaped, and he was now closing in to end this deadly game …

The dream changed …

He dreamed that he was a shark that had just killed a porpoise, and he was now feasting on his prey …

The dream changed …

He dreamed that he was a man being eaten alive by some horrible parasite …

The dream faded.

Harry woke up early on the morning of the Second Task. He was not sure he wanted to attend – he knew from what Fleur Delacour had said and not said that the task would take place within the lake, and that meant that the audience would not have much to watch, but he felt something of a small obligation. She had sort of asked for his support, in a roundabout way.

It was still dark outside. He dragged himself to the showers, and when he returned to his bedside to dress, he saw that Ron was leaving his own four-poster. Harry swaddled himself in multiple layers of clothes, including the jumper he had most recently received as a gift from Mrs Weasley, and he finished with a pair of dragonhide gloves on his hands. He thought he would be warm enough now.

He left for the Great Hall intending to eat a full breakfast before heading to the lake.

Hours later, he reflected that the Second Task had been as unexciting as he had imagined. Fleur Delacour had won; she had secured her air-supply using a spell identified as the Bubble-Head Charm, and returned with her hostage in just over forty-three minutes, receiving full marks of forty. Her hostage had been a little girl who was clearly her sister Gabrielle; the girl looked exactly like Fleur in miniature, Harry thought she was probably no older than eight.

Viktor Krum had taken second place with thirty-two points; he had Transfigured his upper body into that of a shark, and returned with his hostage ten minutes before the hour was up. His hostage had been the woman called Elena Molotov; Harry wondered if she was actually Krum's girlfriend or fiancee since she had been identified as what he would miss the most.

Cedric Diggory had been last, returning just outside the time limit of an hour. He had also used the Bubble-Head Charm; rumors circulated after the task that he had become lost in the lake. He had been awarded twenty-four points.

With these scores, Fleur Delacour had taken the lead.

The final task would not be until the last week of June.

{M-V}

February ended with bitter cold and snow all over the grounds. The lake froze solid after the second task.

The Sirius Black case remained in the headlines of the _Daily Prophet_, though the man himself remained at large, evidently without being sighted at all.

Every week that passed as the year wore on, it seemed that the fifth and seventh years were becoming increasingly nervous about their exams. Rumors and stories abounded.

Classes were sometimes a respite, often not. Potions never was a respite; Snape was as horrible as always.

One Potions class early in March, Igor Karkaroff showed up and tried to drag Snape off; Harry staged the ruination of a bottle of armadillo bile in order to get a little closer and hear whatever the professors talked about, but it was for naught; he could hear nothing at all. He did see that Karkaroff was trying to show Snape something on his arm, but he had no idea what it could be.

That evening at dinner, he received a letter delivered by an anonymous brown barn owl; the text was very strange. It was not written at all, but consisted of words cut out of magazines and glued to a length of parchment. Harry had no idea who would do such a thing; perhaps it was someone's idea of amusement.

The letter rambled on for thirty inches saying nothing of substance. It had closed with the curious phrase "rosy glasses".

After much thought, he had but one idea. It would be close to the end of the month before he got to test that idea though.

On the second Thursday in March, Professor Moody ran the Gryffindors through a hex-deflection exercise. The spells to deflect were Stingers and a strong Poking Hex, neither of which could do any real damage but neither were pleasant to be hit with, especially repeatedly, especially rapidly.

Most of the Gryffindors had done poorly, Harry reckoned, and Moody's comments backed that up. To his own surprise, Harry was by far the best, deflecting or dodging several dozen spells and not getting hit at all. Moody had called it a "quite admirable" effort. He had then promised the class he would be running them through the Shield Charm soon. Harry had already learned it on his own, but declined to mention it.

On the last Saturday of March, just after lunch, Harry went up to Dumbledore's office to test out his idea.

To his joy, the gargoyle jumped aside as soon as Harry uttered the pass-phrase "rosy glasses." He climbed the spiraling stairwell and knocked on the great door with the griffin golden knocker four times. Four sharp raps.

The door swung open a few seconds after the fourth rap.

Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, beaming. The blue eyes behind the half-moon spectacles were twinkling as if in delight.

Harry took a seat without being prompted. "I knew that letter had to be yours," he said, "I couldn't see anyone else making the effort."

Dumbledore's mustache twitched. "How long did you require to work it out?"

Harry shrugged. "Same evening." The headmaster's smile widened.

"Why did you send me a letter like that," Harry asked. "It must have taken a while to put together. You could have just written it."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Certainly I could have just written it. But cutting the magazines up was great fun." Harry was certain that was not the complete truth, but it was definitely a truth.

"I also wanted to know if you would make the effort to puzzle it out, or if you would lose patience and throw the seemingly useless message away." Harry realized after a moment that this was the rest of the truth.

"Hos many secrets do you believe Hogwarts holds, Harry?"

Harry was taken aback. This was quite an odd question. "Er... a lot? I couldn't begin to guess."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled again. "Fortunately, 'a lot' is quite an accurate answer. Truthfully, even I would never claim to know all the secrets of Hogwarts, and I have been here for ages and ages."

Harry nodded. "How long have you been Headmaster, sir? I know it's less than fifty years."

Dumbledore looked at Fawkes for a long moment before answering Harry. "It will be thirty-nine years in December. I was made Headmaster by the board of governors after Armando Dippet died, and of course I could not continue to teach." He looked at Harry expectantly.

Harry was slightly confused by the look, but then it came to him. Dumbledore was waiting for him to reason something out aloud. "Was that when Professor McGonagall started teaching?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Indeed. She was the first person I hired; she had been the first applicant for the Transfiguration post, and by far the most qualified. Rarely has any important decision ever been so easy, in fact." Dumbledore chortled. "Though, even after the decision was made, there were still a couple of applicants who were interested; I felt obligated to at least hear them out, but I really need not have bothered." He shook his head ruefully.

He then looked straight at Harry and Harry thought for a moment that Dumbledore was looking straight through him. "There is one secret of Hogwarts that I would like to show you, Harry. One that is very rarely seen, and never by students. Are you interested?"

Harry didn't even need to think about it. He nodded.

Dumbledore clapped his hands. Fawkes glided from his perch and landed upon Harry's right shoulder. "To the clean room, Fawkes," the headmaster said. Fawkes trilled, and Harry was suddenly wrapped in flame as the phoenix vanished.

When Harry's vision cleared he saw that he was in a dimly lit stone room. The walls were bare stone with but two torches to provide light for the whole room; it was not very effective. On the floor was a face that looked like that of a clock, except that it was not. At the three, six, nine, and twelve positions instead of a number, there was a circle of runes. Between the hours were not minute marks, but more runic script. At the center, where there should have been a notch for the "hands" to jut from, there was another circle, this one much smaller and also made of runic script. The "clock" face was surrounded by runic script as well. It was a runic warding. Harry could not even recognize the language, much less read it.

Fawkes trilled, vanished in flame again, and a few moments later Dumbledore was standing beside Harry. The phoenix then flashed into the center circle.

"This, Harry, is the clean room. At least, I call it such. I am sure the late headmaster who built this chamber had a different name for it. But the name is of no importance compared with the contents."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "The wall straight ahead of us points to magical north. No matter where in Hogwarts the room sits itself, it _always_ points to magical north." He paused for a moment. "You note the unnumbered positions of that face which resembles a clock? The twelve faces magical north, the six south, and the nine and three face west and east respectively. These positions are fixed. They will always be fixed. It is part of the magic of this room."

Harry now knew the clock face motif was deliberate. "What is this room for, sir?"

"Can you not guess, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. He really had no idea and did not know why the headmaster seemed to expect him to.

"The headmaster who designed this was a very spiritual man, more so than most wizards of the time, certainly more than most wizards of today. He believed strongly that dark magic warped the caster via its lingering traces and its fostering of a sadistic mindset."

Harry thought about this. "This warding cleans people's magic?"

Dumbledore nodded. "In a way. It channels pure magic through the user of the warding to destroy dark traces. Someone without those traces will simply feel the warmth of summer sunlight, or a simulation of such. Someone with a dark spirit would feel sicker and sicker the darker they are."

Harry was now curious. "What would it do to Voldemort?"

Dumbledore's face turned predatory as he thought. "Tom would never be able to use something like this. He would not dare try."

For some reason Harry felt uncomfortable seeing that expression on the headmaster's face. It seemed deeply out of place and was quite disturbing.

Harry stared at the warding again. He thought Dumbledore probably wanted to see how he would react. "You want me to use this." Harry's voice was sure.

Dumbledore nodded.

"Do you accuse me of using dark magic?"

Dumbledore shook his head.

"Then why?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Better to ask 'why not?'"

Harry knew then that he wouldn't get a real answer. He shrugged. "Where do I sit?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "At the six or at the twelve, but remember to face north. It is always safest to face north. Looking directly at the sun can blind you, after all."

{M-V}

The dream changed …

The sun beat down upon the land as the hottest day of the summer drew towards its close. Cars that were normally gleaming stood dusty in their drives. Lawns that were normally green lay parched and yellowing; the use of hosepipes had been banned due to drought. A single person remained outside; a teenage boy lying on the lawn outside Number Four of Privet Drive.

The dream faded …

He had been dreaming of himself. Still tired, he fell asleep again.

He dreamed that he was a cat stalking the halls of Hogwarts, looking for mice to snatch up and devour …

The dream changed …

He dreamed that he was being swallowed by an enormous Basilisk, a serpent far bigger than the one he had killed in the Chamber of Secrets …

The dream changed …

He dreamed that he was dueling one of the examiners as a practical examination during his Ordinary Wizarding Levels. He won the duel with almost contemptuous ease. His score on that examination was the highest of the century, at least equal to that of Tom Riddle.

The dream faded …

March turned into April. The rain came every day in torrents.

On the first Saturday of April he and Katie Bell were walking outside, near the Forbidden Forest on the edge of Hogwarts' boundaries. He was trying to keep her mind off the O.W.L exams she would begin sitting in several weeks, but he did not think he was having a great deal of success.

He wanted to be there for her so that she might be there for him in another year's time …

As they began passing the Forest, he recalled the Ford Anglia that he and Ron had flown to Hogwarts almost three school years before. He wondered if the Ford Anglia was still running wild, or if it had been returned to the Weasley home.

The rain was like a shower for the land. He wanted to be in the shower with Katie, exploring her as she explored him, hands roaming over naked flesh.

He imagined that she tasted like honey.

{M-V}

He was beginning to perceive a sense of tension in his classmates. He could not quite put his finger on it though. It was disconcerting.

At first he thought it was exam pressure, but he dismissed that idea quickly. He knew the looks people wore when they were feeling exam pressure, and none of those were in evidence.

Within days he began to believe the tension was directed at himself. Though this was nothing new, it was nothing welcome either. Frustrated and wanting a sounding board, he talked it over with Ron and Hermione.

Hermione had completely dismissed his concerns and his frustration, putting it all up to exam pressure. "O.W.L's are coming," she said. "People are just stressed." She then mentioned that she had started doing O.W.L. practice papers in September.

When Ron had pointed out that they were fourth-years, Hermione had said that didn't matter. Ron had then pointed out that if it was exam pressure that was causing the tension Harry brought up, it was more likely to be the exams this year than the next, because they couldn't get into the fifth year unless they passed the fourth.

Hermione's expression plainly said to Harry that she was still convinced of her own idea.

Ron said something about people recognizing that Harry was made of tougher hide than they were. Harry had not felt this was either quite fair nor quite right, and had explained why in great detail. Ron's ears had gone pink. For once, Hermione had chosen to remain silent, to hold all comment, though Harry felt sure that would not last. There was something bizarre and unnerving about the look on her face …

The entire conversation had left him thinking he was the subject of a great trick. But whose trick it was, he could not answer.

The month of April mortally wounded itself, bleeding out into May.


End file.
